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<04 



























THE 

YELLOW SEVEN 


BY 

EDMUND SNELL 

»i 




THE CENTURY CO. 

New York and London 


1923 










Copyright, 1923, by 

The Century Co. 

Copyright, 1923, by 
N. E. A. Service 


( 


S 

( , 

K I H 



Cl A 7117 7 

V-‘\V | * 


4 


PRINTED IN U. S. A. 


SEP - 7 '23 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER ^ PAGE 

I The Man with the Chinese Eyes . . 3 

II Monica Seeks Enlightenment ... 19 

III The Box Trick ....... 27 

IV Chai-hung Springs a Surprise ... 35 

V The Commissioner Disappears ... 47 

VI The Hut in the Clearing .... 58 

VII Brabazon Takes a Hand.66 

VIII The Daughter of Chai-hung ... 77 

IX Trapped. 90 

X Monica Discusses Matrimony ... 99 

XI The Bronze Jar ....... 112 

XII Ashes of the Departed.121 

XIII The Fan Mystery ...... 135 

XIV Island “N”.144 

XV Duped. 154 

XVI A Question of Ransom.165 

XVII A Jungle Rendezvous.172 

XVIII The Commissioner Meets Lai-ho . . 184 

XIX China Tea ......... 191 









THE YEIXOW SEVEN 


CHAPTER I 

THE MAN WITH THE CHINESE EYES 

C APTAIN JOHN HEWITT, commissioner 
of police at Jesselton, sprang to his feet 
and extended a welcoming hand to a 
stout, elderly Chinaman whose ponder¬ 
ous form, pausing on the threshold, excluded vir¬ 
tually all the daylight that was not already shut 
out by the drawn sun-blinds. 

Monica Viney, delightfully at ease in a long cane 
chair, raised her eyes from the book she had been 
reading to observe that the new-comer had a broad, 
benevolent face and inordinately long little-finger 
nails. His attire seemed to be a studied compro¬ 
mise between Eastern and Western fashions, for he 
wore a white tunic, fastened close up to the neck, 
baggy trousers of black silk that rustled as he 
walked, and black boots with elastic sides. Across 
his chest stretched a gold watch-chain, the links 

of which were peculiarly massive, and the third 

3 


4 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


finger of his left hand displayed a ring set with a 
large green stone. 

“You sent for me,” he announced with a hard 
intonation that, for some reason, struck terror into 
her soul. 

“That’s right,” agreed the commissioner cor¬ 
dially. “Come in and sit down. This is my 
sister, Mrs. Viney. Monica, I want to introduce 
you to the wealthiest and most respected Chinese 
gentleman on the island, Mr. Chai-Hung.” 

“How do you do?” murmured Monica sweetly, 
closing her book and tucking it behind a cushion. 
She was about to rise when a movement of the 
Oriental’s hand checked her. 

“Please don’t move, Mrs. Viney. I cannot tell 
you how delighted I am to make your honored ac¬ 
quaintance. I understand you arrived in Borneo 
only a short time ago. Your brother and I are old 
friends. I trust our somewhat trying climate will 
permit you to retain that amazing freshness of 
coloring you have brought with you from your 
other island.” 

Monica flushed. 

“I came from Singapore three days ago, in the 
Jelandang” she replied. “It was a wonderful trip. 
Borneo looks simply splendid from the sea. The 
coasting-steamer seemed so strange after the liner, 
and I was practically the only passenger in the 
first-class saloon.” 


THE MAN WITH CHINESE EYES 


5 


Chai-Hung lowered himself into a chair. 

“Practically?” he echoed, raising his finely 
marked brows. 

“Why, yes. There was only myself—and a Mr. 
Pennington.” 

Hewitt looked up sharply. 

“Of course you ’ll stoj) to tea, Mr. Chai-Hung?” 

The Chinaman shook his head slowly from side 
to side. 

“I never take tea—at least, not what you West¬ 
ern people term tea. You ’ll pardon me, I know, 
if I say that our national beverage suffered con¬ 
siderably when it came into your hands. You 
diluted it with milk—and spoiled it with sugar!” 
His thin lips twisted into what Monica believed 
was intended for a smile, and Hewitt laughed. 

“I ’ll send for the boy, and see what he can do.” 

“Don’t bother, please.” He looked at his watch. 
“Frankly I have n’t the time. I’m due at my 
agent’s in half an hour. You have something to 
ask me?” 

The commissioner crossed his legs and held his 
cigar-case toward his guest. 

The lips twisted for a second time, and Chai- 
Hung helped himself. 

“I will be the first to admit,” he said smoothly, 
“that you have treated the tobacco-plant with far 
more consideration than you have shown to the 
tea!” 


6 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


He bit off and ejected the end without ceremony. 
Hewitt slapped each of his pockets in turn, ac¬ 
cepted the Chinaman’s box of matches, lit Chai- 
Hung’s cigar, then turned his attention to his own. 
With blissful unconcern, he dropped the box into 
his tunic pocket. 

Monica, keenly observant, watched with amused 
interest the almost pathetic expression with which 
the Oriental followed the cool annexation of his 
property. Presently a ripple of laughter escaped 
her lips. 

“Did n’t you know that?” she demanded. “I 
thought everybody did. I don’t believe he’s ever 
bought any in his life! Jack, give Mr. Chai-Hung 
his matches.” 

The commissioner started guiltily. 

“By Jove! I’m frightfully sorry. I had n’t 
the least intention—” 

He handed them back. 

4 

“You never have,” she assured him, “but you al¬ 
ways do! You really ought to make a serious ef¬ 
fort to break yourself.” 

The eyes of Chai-Hung positively twinkled. 

“I must remember that,” he said. 

Hewitt laughed, too, stroking the black, un¬ 
ruffled hair that surmounted a long, aquiline coun¬ 
tenance. He regarded the glowing end of his cigar 
as if in search of inspiration. 

“I sent for you, Mr. Chai-Hung,” he began, “be- 


THE MAN WITH CHINESE EYES 7 


cause I am seriously in need of help. Your amaz¬ 
ing insight into affairs that concern your own peo¬ 
ple has been of great service to me in the past. 
I am hoping that it will serve in the matter 
that is troubling me at present, to lift the veil from 
a mystery of which the non-solution will not im¬ 
probably entail resignation of my position.” 

The Oriental pursed up his lips and emitted a 
peculiar hissing sound. 

“As bad as that?” 

The commissioner nodded. 

“Yours is an almost unique position. You hold 
the key to the secrets of the East, and yet your 
singular personality has succeeded in opening 
to you the portals of the West. You travel in 
our carriages on the train, you are welcomed at 
the club, you are regarded as a pukka sahib by 
every white man out here.” The chair creaked 
beneath his weight as he sat suddenly upright. 
“I want you to help me to recover Lady Storn¬ 
away’s missing property.” 

Ckai-Hung placed the tips of his fingers together, 
and his eyes seemed to have disappeared alto- 
gether. 

“That is what I think you term a tall order, 
Captain Hewitt.” 

“I know,” admitted the commissioner thought¬ 
fully, looking at the ceiling. “Lord Stornaway 
and his wife dined here last night and left this 


8 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


morning for Sandakan. For pretty obvious rea¬ 
sons I wanted their visit to be devoid of unpleas¬ 
antness. While we were at table her ladyship 
remembered she had left an unusually valuable 
diamond pendant on her dressing-table. Although 
I imagined the thing to be safe enough where it 
was, I suggested that my sister should fetch it.” 
He unclenched his fist and let the open fingers 
drop on to his knee. “She got there just in time 
to see Lady Stornaway’s diamonds disappearing 
through the open window.” 

He paused and glanced at his sister. 

She began speaking very quickly, plucking nerv¬ 
ously at the silk tassel that hung from a cushion 
at her side. 

“As I opened the door a current of cool air met 
me, sending something fluttering to the floor. I 
stopped to recover it, and a sudden sound from the 
window attracted my attention. It was wide open, 
and, through the aperture, I saw a long, brown 
arm, its fingers passing rapidly along the wooden 
surface until they closed over the case that held 
the pendant. A second later, both arm and 
pendant had disappeared. I was horrified. I be¬ 
lieve I screamed, for the next moment Jack and 
Lord Stornaway were both in the room. Lady 
Stornaway followed. They all began asking ques¬ 
tions at once. I felt the room going round me. 
The next thing I remember is finding myself in 


THE MAN WITH CHINESE EYES 9 


this chair, still holding the piece of card that I 
had picked up before I saw the arm.” 

She shuddered involuntarily, and Chai-Hung 
rose to his feet. 

“A distinctly unpleasant experience,” he com¬ 
mented suavely. “And the piece of card—what 
was it like, Mrs. Viney?” 

"It was as long as my index-finger,” broke in 
the commissioner, “with rounded corners. On one 
side it was black, on the other yellow—with seven 
black dots, four of them above a faint dividing 
line that ran half way, and three below.” 

Monica, leaning over the arm of her chair, 
wrinkled her forehead. She could have sworn that 
the habitually unruffled Chai-Hung had started vio¬ 
lently. And yet, if he had been the victim of a 
sudden emotion, the rapidity with which he re¬ 
covered his calm was equally surprising. 

“An ordinary Chinese playing-card,” he sug¬ 
gested. 

The commissioner shook his head a trifle im¬ 
patiently. 

“It was possibly intended to look like one, but 
the coloring was different. The background is, 
I believe, invariably white. This, as I have told 
you, was yellow. I am inclined to attach a great 
deal of importance to this card, Mr. Chai-Hung. 
I fancy this theft was no common or garden theft, 
the perpetrator no ordinary thief.” 


10 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“Indeed?” Chai-Hung regarded his watch for 
a second time and sank upon the very edge of his 
chair. “What is your theory, Captain Hewitt, if I 
may ask?” 

e/ 

“I believe that this affair is not wholly uncon¬ 
nected with the present wave of anti-British feel¬ 
ing that prevails everywhere. I do not look upon 
it as most people would be prepared to do, as 
an act of common robbery for the sheer face-value 
of the stones. I regard it as a carefully calculated 
plan to cause considerable annoyance to a promi¬ 
nent Englishman well known in Chinese waters: 
the work, in fact, of a secret society. Be that as 
it may,” he concluded abruptly, “I ’m in about the 
biggest hole I’ve dropped into during the whole 
of my official career; and I’m counting on you to 
help me out of it.” 

“Has it ever occurred to you,” asked the Orien¬ 
tal blandly, “that a secret society in the East is 
very much the same as a trade-union in the West?” 

“Then you don’t agree with me?” 

“Hardly.” 

“But,” cried Monica excitedly, “how do you ac¬ 
count for the yellow seven?” 

Chai-Hung leaped to his feet and stood glar¬ 
ing at her, the corners of his mouth turned down, 
his fists clenching and unclenching in his efforts 
to choke down the fury that consumed him. 


THE MAN WITH CHINESE EYES 11 


“What do you know of the Yellow Seven?” he 
demanded fiercely. 

She regarded him in wide-eyed amazement. 

“Why,” she retorted innocently, “it was yellow 
—and there were seven spots.” 

The Oriental swallowed something in his throat. 

“Of course, I was forgetting,” he admitted, half 
to himself. “I ’ll do everything possible, Captain 
Hewitt, but I warn you not to be too optimistic.” 

At the entrance he turned. 

“While following on the lines of your theory,” 
he added, “don’t forget the more obvious solu¬ 
tion to the mystery. What about your servant?” 

The commissioner smiled. 

“I engaged a fresh one this morning. The 
other’s under lock and key. I’d thought I’d 
mention the yellow seven, though, because he 
seemed no end upset when I showed it to him. 
He positively groveled. He knew all about it, 
right enough, but up to now we have n’t succeeded 
in getting anything out of him.” 

“I suppose not,” commented Chai-Hung dryly. 
“Good afternoon, Captain Hewitt. Good day, Mr$ 
Yiney. I hope we shall meet again very soon.” 

He was off at a rapid pace down the path, and 
the commissioner watched his red paper umbrella 
until it was out of sight among the waving palm* 
trees that fringed the road. 


12 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


He turned to find Pennington at liis elbow. 

“Good Lord, man! How did you get here?” 

The other grinned. The only thing that was 
remarkable about Peter Pennington was the angle 
at which his eyes were set on an otherwise youth¬ 
ful countenance. They ran obliquely, and when 
their owner smiled they vanished completely, seek¬ 
ing cover behind diagonal slits that were as Celes¬ 
tial in appearance as those of the great Chai-Hung. 

“Came as far as the sun-blinds,” Pennington 
explained, “heard the sound of voices, and re¬ 
treated to the kitchen-entrance. Found your of¬ 
fice a damn sight cooler than the outer atmos¬ 
phere, and proceeded to make myself comfortable.” 

The commissioner surveyed him doubtfully. 

“You’ve been listening.” 

“I always listen,” admitted the newcomer un¬ 
abashed. “It’s my job.” 

“I suppose you gathered that our Oriental ac¬ 
quaintance is a washout as far as this affair is con¬ 
cerned,” said Hewitt gloomily. 

The younger man leaned easily against the 
wooden wall and began rolling a cigarette with 
practised ease. He nipped off the ragged ends 
with a minute pair of folding scissors and smiled 
across at Monica. 

“Afternoon, Mrs. Viney. Hot, is n’t it?” 

“Frightfully; the flies are such a nuisance, 
Mr. Pennington, you don’t really think Mr. Chai- 


THE MAN WITH CHINESE EYES 13 


Hung will help Jack, do you? I think he’s a 
horrible man!” 

“Do you?” He blew out a long wreath of smoke. 

“I don’t like his face,” pursued Monica, tossing 
her shock of brown curls. “He’s oily! He al- 
most jumped down my throat when I mentioned 
the yellow seven. I don’t see anything very ter¬ 
rible in that. What else could I have said?” 

The commissioner came back to his chair. 

“I expect he interpreted your remark as a sort 
of challenge; Chinese ladies are not permitted to 
argue,” he said. 

“Know anything about Chai-Hung?” asked 
Pennington suddenly. 

Hewitt started. 

“My dear feller!” he expostulated, momentarily 
incensed at the apparent absurdity of the question. 
“I fancy I know even more about him than most 
people. He’s a supremely prosperous Chinese 
merchant. He plants rubber as a sort of profit¬ 
able hobby, in much the same way as our success¬ 
ful men indulge in poultry farming.” 

“Ah!” said Pennington, nodding wisely. “And 
the innocent settlers on the west coast of British 
North Borneo know just about as much of his pri¬ 
vate affairs as the yokels in the immediate vicinity 
of your Western gentleman’s chicken-farm—as 
much, in fact, as he chooses to tell them!” 

“That’s absurd,” declared the commissioner tes- 


U THE YELLOW SEVEN 

tily. “If you ’ll take my advice you ’ll come out of 
the tall grass—and talk sensibly. For all his 
yellow hide, Chai-Hung’s as white as they make 
’em.” 

“And yet he refuses to help you?” 

“Not at all. He promised to do his best in 
what is obviously a very difficult matter. I sup¬ 
pose I was unduly hopeful. In any case, I should 
hardly have expected him to send the damned pen¬ 
dant on to me by registered post this evening.” 

Pennington turned and, resting a hand on each 
door-post, gazed thoughtfully toward a sea of in¬ 
finite blue. In the breathless haze of a tropic 
afternoon the fern-like leaves of the cocoa-palms 
hung motionless against a shimmering haze that 
brought tears to his eyes. 

“Thanks,” he murmured dryly. “I take it, then, 
that you place absolute confidence in our friend?” 

“Certainly. I’ve no earthly reason to do other¬ 
wise.” 

The younger man swung slowly round on his 
heel and thrust both hands deep in his jacket 
pockets. He walked deliberately down the pas¬ 
sageway toward the kitchen quarters, then came 
quickly back and stood directly in front of the 
comissioner’s chair. 

Monica noticed that the boyish look had van¬ 
ished completely from his face, and that the lan- 


THE MAN WITH CHINESE EYES 15 


guid air had given place to a litheness of move¬ 
ment that suggested vast possibilities. 

“If Chai-Hung knows as much of the manners 
and customs of his people as you are inclined to 
imagine, if he possesses the slightest inkling of the 
mysterious undercurrent that prompted this crime, 
he could have told you one thing at least—if he 
had chosen. He could have explained to you that 
the recovery of the lost diamonds is every moment 
becoming more difficult, because they are changing 
hands with incredible rapidity.” 

Monica gasped. 

“Go on,” commanded Hewitt calmly, tossing the 
end of his cigar into the garden. 

“The well of Oriental cunning knows no bot¬ 
tom,” continued Pennington, “and yet I flatter my¬ 
self I Ve learned to probe into it as deeply as most. 
Even cunning can overreach itself. You’ve 
watched a conjurer at work with a billiard-ball. 
He produces a series of tantalizing illusions. He 
draws it from his mouth, his ears, his knee; and 
yet the veriest school-boy could explain to you 
that the trick was begun by forcing you to believe 
that the thing was in his left hand, while actually 
it was concealed in his right. The gentleman 
responsible for organizing this particular coup 
started out with a similar deception in view, only 
he multiplied the number of hands employed. I 


16 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


found no difficulty in running the original thief to 
earth. I was on the point of closing w T ith him when 
a singular complication occurred: as I lay on my 
tummy in the undergrowth he was knifed—com¬ 
pletely and effectively—before my eyes!” 

Hewitt bent forward suddenly. 

“Good Lord!” 

“I collared the assassin low, and for a matter 
of minutes we fought like wild cats. He had the 
strength of a bison, and if he had n’t left his 
knife in the back of his victim, I should n’t be 
here now. Anyhow he broke away and got clear, 
leaving me with this.” 

He held the torn half of a yellow piece of paste¬ 
board before the commissioner’s astonished eyes. 

For a second Hewitt seemed deprived of the 
power of speech, and it was Monica’s excited voice 
that launched the question: 

“But, Mr. Pennington, if he were a confederate, 
why did he kill his friend?” 

“Because,” suggested her brother, “once having 
got the pendant he decided to keep it for himself.” 

“No,” said Pennington with conviction. “I 
fancy you ’re wrong there. The assassin did n’t 
trouble to search the dead man, but I went over 
him very thoroughly. The booty had passed from 
his hands long before I overtook him.” 

Monica drew in a deep breath. 

“I still don’t see—” 



THE MAN WITH CHINESE EYES IT 


“I believe our friend was guilty of a serious in¬ 
discretion in leaving behind the token that had 
been intrusted to him—the yellow seven.” 

“I don’t see that we’re forra’der,” declared 
Hewitt moodily. “What do you suggest doing?” 

“Turning in for a spell,” said Pennington, sup¬ 
pressing a yawn. “In the mean time, watch every 
port, search every one who tries to embark —every 
one you understand—white, black, or yellow! 
Cheerio!” 

He made his way toward the back of the house, 
leaving Monica Yiney bubbling over with curiosity. 
She could not for the life of her imagine what 
position in the somewhat complicated scheme of 
things he could possibly occupy that would justify 
the attitude of cheerful unconcern he appeared to 
take up before such an exalted personage as the 
commissioner of police. 

Hewitt anticipated the question that was form¬ 
ing itself on her lips. 

“That’s the most remarkable feller in Eastern 
waters,” he told her. “ ‘Chinese Pennington’ they 
call him. You saw his eyes? His pedigree’s fault¬ 
less, but some extraordinary freak of fortune—or 
birth, if you like—decreed he should go through 
life like that. I fancy locality has a big effect on 
appearance. Pennington’s people have been mer¬ 
chants in Shanghai for generations. Anyhow, 
there it is! To all intents and purposes he’s as 




18 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


white as you or I, but there ? s no getting away 
from the fact that he has the eyes of an Oriental. 
He knows Chinese character inside out. He can 
talk like them. He can get himself up to look like 
them. He holds a sort of roving commission and 
is streets ahead of the ordinary native detective. 
The queer thing is that although the natives know 
of Pennington they Ve never managed to nail him. 
They regard him as something almost superhuman. 
They call him ‘He Who Sees in the Dark.’ ” 

“How thrilling!” commented Monica. “He 
must be frightfully brave.” 

The commissioner smiled grimly. 

“Pennington’d tackle the devil incarnate,” he 
said, “if he could find his lair.” 


CHAPTER II 


MONICA SEEKS ENLIGHTENMENT 

T HE presence of a young, beautiful, and 
undeniably attractive widow is bound 
to cause something more than a mild 
sensation in any quarter of the globe 
where there happens to be a preponderance of un¬ 
attached males. It was perfectly natural, there¬ 
fore, that Monica Viney, at such times when her 
brother was occupied with his affairs, should be 
rarely at a loss for a cavalier to accompany her on 
her habitual excursions in search of knowledge 
after the sun was down. At these times, however, 
Chinese Pennington was never available. He 
came and went, and yet she had never witnessed 
either his arrival or departure. 

To Monica all Chinamen were alike, and she had 
not learned to discriminate between Malays and 
Dyaks, Dusuns and Muruts. The difference she 
saw between the original boy and the servant who 
had taken his place was rather a question of stat¬ 
ure than facial expression. Nevertheless, on one 
memorable morning when she had obeyed a sudden 

impulse to visit the crowded fruit-market before 

19 


20 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


breakfast, she fancied she had recognized the long, 
lean form of Chinese Pennington leaning listlessly 
against a tree-trunk, a cigarette hanging from his 
lips. She had passed so closely to him that her 
crimson parasol had brushed his coat, but Penning¬ 
ton—if indeed it had been he—betrayed not the 
slightest sign of recognition. When she had mus¬ 
tered up courage to look back again he was gone. 

It was during one of those evening walks that 
she persuaded Dawson, a local district officer, to 
take her to a gambling-den. 

They had been strolling leisurely through the 
native quarter, stopping at innumerable stores 
and purchasing an inordinate quantity of perfectly 
useless articles. They halted presently before a 
long building from which, at intervals, came bursts 
of guttural chattering. At one end a door stood 
half open, a patch of yellow light falling on the 
roadway. 

“Is this it?” she whispered excitedly. 

Dawson nodded. He was a short, red-faced man 
of uncertain age, and inclined to stoutness. Her 
brother referred to him as a “steady-going old 
file,” and Monica had seen no reason to doubt his 
word. 

“Orientals will gamble until they have nothing 
left,” he told her. “They indulge in all sorts of 
queer games of chance, and a great deal of money 
changes hands nightly.” 



MONICA SEEKS ENLIGHTENMENT 21 


“May we look?” 

She caught his arm impulsively and tried to drag 
him toward the entrance, but Dawson, cautious 
and immovable as granite, waited until there w'as 
a lull in the stress of devotees. He guided her 
through the doorway and into a narrow cubicle 
screened from the entrance-hall by a heavy cur¬ 
tain. An elderly Chinaman, humpbacked and 
wizened, left the stool on which he had been seated, 
nodded to Dawson, and went out. Her escort 
placed the stool in front of a narrow slit cut in 
the woodwork. 

Monica peered cautiously through. There was 
a long table running the whole length of the hall, 
a round dozen of smaller ones, and the entire 
walls seemed to be covered with crudely colored 
pictures without frames. The whole atmosphere 
throbbed with feverish activity, the rattling of dice, 
and spasmodic, inarticulate grunts whose meaning 
she could not decide, whether intended for signs of 
pleasure or despair. There were clerks in white 
duck, native overseers in greasy suits, coolies with 
broad-brimmed hats of plaited cane and wearing 
only loin-cloths. The building was permeated with 
a close, unpleasant odor. 

A Chinaman, wearing enormous horn-rimmed 
spectacles, sat at the far end of a big table be¬ 
fore what appeared to be the inverted halves of 
cocoanut-shells. Whenever these were lifted there 


22 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


arose a repetition of the discordant Babel she had 
heard as they approached. All along both sides 
Orientals of every class and distinction thronged 
the rocking forms. Every now and then a man 
rose, seemingly emotionless, and left the table. 

Monica, the novelty of this strange scene holding 
her enthralled, allowed her gaze to wander round 
the room. Presently it fell upon the form of an 
Oriental in a suit of blue whose face seemed pe¬ 
culiarly familiar. Every time a player from the 
top end vacated his seat, this enthusiastic gam¬ 
bler moved into it, in this manner getting grad¬ 
ually nearer to the man with the horn spectacles 
who manipulated the shells. Presently he looked 
up at the swinging oil lamp—and Monica uttered 
a little cry. Despite the elaborate disguise, there 
was something in the set of the mobile mouth, 
something in the poise of the shoulders, that be¬ 
trayed him. She found her lips forming the words 
“Chinese Pennington 

A moment later, and he had reached the apparent 
zenith of his desire. His elbow touched the sleeve 
of the man who presided, but his eyes were star¬ 
ing straight before him at an enormous Chinaman 
who sat opposite, both hands resting on the table, 
the fingers slightly closed. 

For some reason that she could not quite de¬ 
fine, a picture began to form in her mind; a pic¬ 
ture that the vividness of Pennington’s descrip- 


MONICA SEEKS ENLIGHTENMENT 23 


tion had impressed on her memory. She saw a 
glade in the night-shrouded jungle wastes, a hud¬ 
dled form with a long knife protruding from be¬ 
tween hunched-up shoulder-blades, and ‘He Who 
Sees in the Dark’ struggling for dear life in the 
matted undergrowth, wrestling with a creature 
with the strength of a bison. 

Her vivid imagination had already established 
the identity of the man who now faced the hero of 
her romance. A strange thrill crept over her, an 
odd sensation that something was going to happen. 
Behind her, as in the brief waking moments of 
a tortured nightmare, she heard Dawson strike a 
match and puff strenuously at his pipe. And then, 
through the nebulous smoke-haze, the three prin¬ 
cipal figures at the top end of the long table stood 
out in bold relief from the surging background of 
negligible supers. 

In a moment of time the thing happened. The 
man opposite Pennington slid a yellow hand to¬ 
ward the Chinaman in the horn spectacles, as if 
trying to pass to him the something over which 
the powerful fingers were closed. Like a flash, 
Pennington’s arm shot out, sending coins clinking 
to the dusty boards, rolling away in all directions, 
scattering little heaps of paper money like autumn 
leaves in a sudden gust. Swift as the movement 
had been, the action of the listless Oriental who 
presided was quicker. The mysterious package, 


24 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


wrapped in a broad green leaf secured by strands 
of twisted bamboo, vanished into some hidden 
pocket beneath the wide-sleeved jacket. A score 
of swarthy forms leaped to their feet, and Chinese 
Pennington was lost to view in a writhing, swaying 
circle above which flashed a forest of naked blades. 

“We’d better get out of this,” said Dawson at 
Monica’s elbow. 

As his arm slipped through hers, striving to pull 
her toward the curtain, she cast one last glance 
into the seething den. The circle had dissolved 
into the form of an irregular horseshoe. She saw 
the central figure stagger back, the horn spectacles 
slipping from his face, saw the long arm of the 
powerfully built Oriental outstretched, his index- 
finger eloquent of a hoarse denunciation that was 
lost in the tumult of voices, and caught the glint 
of the blue barrel of an automatic, Pennington 
swung completely round on one heel, his pistol 
sending his antagonists stumbling over one an¬ 
other, leaving him a channel through which to es¬ 
cape. But he only fired once. With astounding 
accuracy, he shattered the glass chimmey of the 
swinging lamp, plunging the building into dark¬ 
ness. 

Thirty seconds later Monica found herself lean¬ 
ing against a wall under a jet dome twinkling 
with stars. Dawson, gasping for breath, stood at 
her side. He was hatless, ruefully regarding the 


MONICA SEEKS ENLIGHTENMENT 25 


snapped stem of his pipe. Under normal circum¬ 
stances, she would have marveled at this sudden 
display of activity on the part of a “steady-going 
old tile,” but a host of confused thoughts revolved 
in her throbbing brain. She was wondering 
whether Pennington had fought clear, whether it 
had actually been Lady Stornaway’s diamond pen¬ 
dant contained in the queer package the transit of 
which the Englishman had striven to intercept, and, 
if such indeed was the case, whether it would ever 
come to light again—or go on changing hands to 
infinity. . . . 

And then she remembered the stout Celestial 
who had presided at the head of the table. Be¬ 
fore he could replace the spectacles that had fallen, 
she had seen his face. Despite her inexperience 
of the Orient, where all men’s faces seemed alike, 
this fleeting vision had infused her with a notion 
that was fast becoming an obsession. She could 
have sworn that the Chinaman who manipulated 
the inverted shells was none other than the man 
in whom her brother had declared absolute con¬ 
fidence—Chai-Hung! 

“But, clearly as the swift-moving events of that 
momentous evening were imprinted on her mem¬ 
ory, she was destined to witness a somewhat puz¬ 
zling “curtain” to her singularly poignant drama, 
a climax that for some moments, at least, forced 
her to believe that she had been the victim of an 



26 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


optical illusion, the unconscious subject of Orien¬ 
tal hypnotism. For, as she turned to murmur her 
thanks to the inimitable Dawson, her glance wan¬ 
dered from the flight of white steps to a long cane 
chair at the far end of the commissioner’s veranda. 

Clothed in a suit of immaculate white, breathing 
with the placid regularity of a healthy child, 
Chinese Pennington slumbered peacefully! 


CHAPTER III 


THE BOX TRICK 

M ONICA was leaning on the wooden 
rail, gazing beyond the sun-scorched 
slopes to where, at the farthest ex¬ 
tremity of the white jetty, the black 
funnel of the Darvel emitted a faint, hesitant line 
of smoke. 

Hewitt, in his shirt-sleeves, his topi set at a 
jaunty angle, was interviewing a native orderly 
in the garden. Hovering in the foreground, coolly 
inciting a juvenile fox-terrier to burrow in a bed 
for a legendary rat, Peter Pennington smoked and 
waited. He approached the commissioner the in¬ 
stant the interview was at an end. 

“Just been down to the boat,” he explained. 
“She pushes off at eleven.” 

Hewitt glanced at his watch. 

“There’s a good half-hour to go yet.” 

“Quite a lot can happen in half an hour,” re¬ 
turned Pennington. “Still searching everybody?” 
The commissioner grunted. 

“If you want my opinion,” he said, “that con¬ 
founded pendant’s not on the island.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t agree with you. It prob- 

27 


28 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


ably won’t be here much longer.” He flicked the 
ash from his cigarette. “Seen Chai-Hung?” 

“No, but he sent up a chit by/a coolie, asking 
permission to go on board and interview the super¬ 
cargo about some rice he’s expecting.” 

“Of course you refused?” 

The commissioner described a semicircle in the 
dust with the toe of a shoe. 

“On the contrary,” he asserted loftily, “I gave 
him a permit. I did n’t see any harm in that. 
He’s not traveling. The evidence you’ve suc¬ 
ceeded in raking together against him is purely cir¬ 
cumstantial ; you’ve always had your knife in him, 
you know.” 

Pennington stuck his feet wide apart. 

“He damn nearly had a knife into me—a couple 
of nights ago!” He caught Hewitt’s sleeve. 
“Look here, old son, I’m not letting you chuck 
your chances away like this. Stornaway’s all 
right, but she ’ll never rest until she’s got you out 
of this. Petticoat influence is the very devil!” 
He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Chai-Hung’s 
got that pendant on him now, don’t you under¬ 
stand? Once he has it aboard, you ’ll have to tear 
up every square foot of the deck, empty every 
bunker, investigate every berth; and then you 
won’t have a dog’s chance of finding it.” 

The commissioner wavered. 

“You don’t know he’s got it,” he declared. 



THE BOX TRICK 


29 


“I’ve every reason to believe be has, and I’m 
not taking any risks. If you don’t slip into your 
tunic and come down with me, I warn you I ’ll 
search him myself.” 

At that moment, Monica, trembling with sup¬ 
pressed excitement, caught sight of a red um¬ 
brella passing placidly along the roadway at the 
foot of the slope. 

“Jack!” she called out suddenly. “Go down 
with Mr. Pennington. You can’t afford to stand 
on ceremony.” 

She threw the commissioner’s tunic to Penning¬ 
ton, who shot out a lean arm and caught it. 

“I’m up to my neck in work,” growled Hewitt 
protestingly. 

“It’s something to have work—to be up to your 
neck in!” declared his sister, joining them. She 
guided his hand into a sleeve. “Now please don’t 
stop any longer, or he ’ll get there first.” 

She waved her hand to them until they were out 
of sight, but only Pennington responded. 

Within twenty yards of the gangway they over¬ 
took Chai-Hung. 

“Morning,” said Pennington cheerfully. 

The Oriental stopped dead. 

“Good morning, gentlemen.” He looked at 
Hewitt. “I have to thank you for your extreme 
courtesy,” he told him smoothly. “On occasions 
like these there are certain formalities which— 


30 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


necessary though they may seem to be—are dis¬ 
tinctly annoying.” 

The commissioner flushed. 

“I regret to inform you, Mr. Chai-Hung, that 
circumstances have arisen which necessitate enforc¬ 
ing the temporary measure even in your case.” 

The Chinaman started. 

“Do I understand, Captain Hewitt, that you pro¬ 
pose seaching me?” 

“I ’m afraid so.” 

Chai-Hung’s lips parted, but his broad features 
betrayed not the least sign of emotion. For a 
second his gaze traveled to Pennington, w T ho re¬ 
turned it with equanimity, a queer, inscrutable 
smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. 

“I’m afraid you will both be disappointed.” 

“On the contrary,” returned Pennington with 
studied politeness, “I feel sure that both the com¬ 
missioner and myself would be infinitely mortified 
should it transpire that, by some extraordinary 
means, Lady Stornaway’s diamonds have come into 
your possession.” 

Chai-Hung drew in a deep breath, folded his um¬ 
brella, and handed it to a waiting coolie. 

“What must be must be, I suppose,” he an¬ 
nounced with an air of patient resignation. 
“After all, one has to remember how much impor¬ 
tance hinges on this comparatively trifling theft.” 

Hewitt moved impatiently. 


THE BOX TRICK 


31 


“Might as well get this unpleasant duty over,” 
he suggested. “You can take it from me, Mr. Chai- 
Hung, that I have never for one moment suspected 
you of complicity in this affair. A cabin would 
be the handiest place, don’t you think, Pennington? 
There’s not the slightest need to attract atten¬ 
tion.” 

They crossed the gangway and passed under the 
bone-white awning into the first state room that 
chanced to be unoccupied. Pennington closed the 
door. 

“Can I offer you a drink, Mr. Chai-Hung?” asked 
the commissioner. 

The Oriental shook his head and, producing 
a cigar-case quaintly embroidered with a silver 
dragon, glanced inquiringly round. 

“I have your permission to smoke?” 

“Most certainly,” Hewitt hastened to assure him. 
“No, thanks. Not for me; if you don’t mind, I ’ll 
have a cigarette.” 

Pennington, seated on the edge of the berth, his 
hands stuck deep in his pockets, declined, also. 
Chai-Hung lit up carefully, and passed the matches 
on to the commissioner. 

Ten minutes later, both Englishmen emerged. 

Hewitt dropped into a chair and, tilting back his 
sun-helmet, mopped a moist brow. 

“Now are you satisfied?” he demanded. 

“Perfectly,” declared Pennington enigmatically. 


32 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“What d ’you say to some liquid refreshment ?” 

“It it were n’t so confoundedly hot,” said the 
commisisoner, “I’d order a double brandy! As 
far as I can see, you ’ye made a pretty howling 
mess of the whole affair. I’d have put my shirt 
on Chai-Hung; and I was right. Men in his posi¬ 
tion don’t indulge in highway robbery. Reading 
between the lines, I can tell you, if you don’t al¬ 
ready know it, that our mutual acquaintance is 
mortally offended with the way you went over him.” 

“I ’ll admit I was thorough,” chuckled the other, 
signaling to a steward who lounged in the doorway. 
“I suppose we ’ye just about time to quench our 
thirsts and get ashore before she sails.” 

He ordered slincfs. 

The deep-throated note of the vessel’s siren rever¬ 
berated suddenly, and, at that moment, Chai-Hung 
emerged from the cabin, surveying the dead end of 
the cigar he had laid aside. Both men rose, but 
the benign smile with which the Oriental greeted 
them drove the intended apology from Hewitt’s 
lips. 

“Efficiency, Mr. Pennington,” he said, “is the 
key-note of success. I sincerely hope that before 
we meet again you will have been successful in 
your search.” 

With disarming cordiality, he dropped a hand on 
the shoulder of each and accompanied them to the 
gangway. 


THE BOX TRICK 33 

Hewitt was on the point of crossing to the jetty 
when Chai-Hung laughed. 

“You will never cure yourself of that little fail¬ 
ing, I ’m afraid/’ he asserted?. “Do you mind re¬ 
turning me my matches?” 

The commissioner dropped his cane. 

“You don’t mean to say— By Gad! I have, 
though! He produced the missing box, holding it 
between finger and thumb. 

The Oriental, still smiling, reached out, but, be¬ 
fore his fingers could- close on it, Pennington’s 
had intervened. 

“Just a minute,” he murmured apologetically, a 
light in his eyes, “mine happens to be out, too!” 

He turned his back and, withdrawing the flimsy 
cover, deliberately emptied the legitimate contents 
into his palm. He let the matches fall, one by one, 
to the deck, and Hewitt, obsessed with a hazy no¬ 
tion that his friend’s recent energies had turned 
his brain, stepped close up to him and peered ap¬ 
prehensively over his shoulder. 

Yielding to the pressure of Pennington’s finger¬ 
nail, the false bottom of the box came away, and 
there, in the cunningly contrived recess it had so 
effectively screened, lay a dream of platinum and 
diamonds, the myriad facets flashing in the tropic 
sunlight! 

The commissioner recoiled in speechless amaze¬ 
ment. Presently he found his tongue. 


34 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“Good Lord! How on earth— He must have 
guessed!” He choked suddenly and passed a 
weary hand across his forehead. “He had the 
damned effrontery to give ’em to me!” 

He swung round savagely. 

“Here, Mr. Chai-Hung—” 

But the great Chai-Hung w^as gone! 


CHAPTER IV 


CHAI-HUNG SPRINGS A SURPRISE 

C HINESE PENNINGTON lay, delight¬ 
fully inert, tapping the toes of his brown 
canvas shoes together, and gazing 
through the faint cloud of blue smoke 
that hung like a halo above him at a lizard cling¬ 
ing with astonishing skill to the wooden ceiling of 
Hewitt’s veranda. A large hand reached suddenly 
down and scratched at a section of white calf that 
showed between the lowest extremity of a carefully 
creased trouser-leg and the top of a crumpled black 
sock. Presently he produced a rubber pouch and, 
balancing it on his knees, began rolling a fresh 
cigarette, exerting the same meticulous care that 
was customary to him on these occasions. 

Monica, watching him curiously, found it dif¬ 
ficult—even in the light of the knowledge she al¬ 
ready possessed—to associate in her mind the two 
Penningtons: The youthful immaculate slacker 
who ornamented her brother’s bungalow, leading 
an apparently purposeless existence; and the lean, 
gaunt scarecrow who—indistinguishable from the 

natives themselves—wandered undetected from 

35 



36 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


drinking-house to gambling-den, from market-place 
to camp-fire, hounding out the ruthless executives 
of the Yellow Seven. In some respects he re¬ 
minded her of the semi-domesticated cat that had 
selected their house as a convenient refuge dur¬ 
ing the hours of tropic daylight, a queer, inscru¬ 
table creature whose placid exterior betrayed no 
indication of the fierce nature of its nocturnal en¬ 
counters. 

The object of her scrutiny clipped off the stray 
ends of tobacco and swung both legs over an arm 
of his chair. 

“Warm, is n’t it?” 

Monica smiled back at him from the depths of 
her cushioned seat. 

“Almost too hot to think. I’m glad you’ve de¬ 
cided to sit up and be sociable because I’ve struck 
a perfectly putrid book; and I’ve lots of things 
I want to ask you.” 

Pennington moved the cigarette to a corner of 
his mouth. 

“Still thirsting for knowledge?” 

“Naturally. Ever since you embarked upon 
your campaign against Chai-Hung, I’ve been fol¬ 
lowing every detail with breathless interest. You 
could hardly expect me to do otherwise.” 

She stared between the blue sun-blinds toward 
a sea of infinite azure fringed with cocoa-palms. 


CHAI-HUNG SPRINGS A SURPRISE 37 


Presently she gave a little impatient toss of brown 
curls and clasped her hands over one knee. 

“You remember Lady Stornaway’s diamonds?” 

The other nodded. 

“Chai-Hung had them in his pocket. You caught 
him red-handed.” 

“True, O queen!” 

“Then why did n’t you arrest him?” 

“Because he wisely took advantage of the mild 
shock the sudden discovery gave us—and bolted.” 

She waved a hand before her face to disperse a 
small colony of tormenting flies. 

“You could have followed.” 

“It was a warm morning,” Pennington reminded 
her with an idiotic smile. 

“Don’t be a fool! You could have had him in 
a couple of minutes if you’d wanted.” She drew 
her chair close. “Please tell me the real reason. 
I swear I won’t divulge it to a soul. Jack won’t 
mind. He tells me lots of things.” 

Pennington moistened his lips. 

“To be perfectly frank with you, we were hope¬ 
lessly outwitted. Chai-Hung had organized the 
thing magnificently. As we left the gangway we 
found ourselves confronted by a crowd of Oriental 
idlers that had appeared on the quay-side as if 
by magic. Apparently they were there to witness 
the departure of the boat, but they succeeded in 


38 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


holding us up for just sufficient time to enable our 
quarry to make good his escape; that was the first 
little difficulty we had to contend with. The sec¬ 
ond was equally effective, although more surpris¬ 
ing. Before we were half-way back to the bun¬ 
galow, Chai-Hung sailed blandly on to the path, 

followed by a posse of disreputable ruffians who 
bore a struggling prisoner in their midst. This 
fellow was pitched at our feet—and confessed to 
having stolen the pendant and placed it where we 
found it!” 

Monica gasped. 

“Not really ?” 

“Absolutely. This sudden denouement im¬ 
pressed your brother vastly, but it had by no means 
the same effect upon myself. You see, I ’d already 
gathered a very fair insight into Chai-Hung’s char¬ 
acter and influence. Among a countless legion of 
worshiping followers, to whose fanatical mentality 
even death has no terrors, it was quite an easy mat¬ 
ter for him to discover a scapegoat. But the affair 
had been so beautifully staged that there was noth¬ 
ing left to us at the moment but to accept the con¬ 
fession—and apologize.” 

“But,” protested Mrs. Viney, “you saw Chai- 
Hung at the gaming-house, you saw him accept the 
pendant from the man who had it—” 

“I saw a packet which I believed to be the pen¬ 
dant ; I did n’t actually see the diamonds.” 


CHAI-HUNG SPRINGS A SURPRISE 39 

“But you knew they were there.” 

Pennington moved in his chair. 

“Of course I knew. I ’m perfectly aware that 
Chai-Hung organized the whole business, but I’ve 
got to prove it conclusively before I can bring him 
to justice. Look at it in this way: Two people 
are suspected of a crime; the one a respected mem¬ 
ber of society, the other an obvious blackguard; 
the other confesses. What are we to suppose? 
What would every reasonable being outside the 
case suppose? The matter won’t be allowed to rest 
there; you can make your mind easy on that score. 
But, for the moment, Chai-Hung is at large, with¬ 
out the shadow r of a stain upon his character. He 
is still the most respected Chinaman in Borneo.” 

“And the Yellow Seven?” 

“Is going to prove to us what the actual discov¬ 
ery of the diamonds in the match-box did not, that 
Chai-Hung is not merely the head of a gang of 
jew^el-thieves, but the chief instigator of every out¬ 
rage against whites that has been committed on the 
island. These outrages are increasing in number 
almost daily, and the little card with the seven 
black dots accompanies every crime. I’ve now se¬ 
cured sufficient evidence to incriminate Chai-Hung, 
and my next move is to catch him with the cards 
in his possession. Have you ever seen lalang, Mrs. 
Yiney? It’s a pestilential weed that grows high 
on ill-tended plantations. Once deeply rooted, it 


40 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


spreads everywhere, sapping the earth of its good¬ 
ness, depriving the trees of the nourishment they 
need. To destroy it you must dig it up, root and all, 
and burn it until there is nothing left that can take 
root again. The Yellow Seven is like lalang. 
I’ve got to make certain that Chai-Hung is the 
root, and the only root.” 

“I see,” said Monica thoughtfully. “And until 
this happens—” 

“Until then every planter who walks in lonely 
places goes in peril of his life; every white man 
who employs a Chinese cook-boy should look closely 
into his credentials w T hen he engages him, and 
carefully into his cooking for ever after!” 

Mrs. Viney gasped. 

“But our boy is Chinese!” 

“Of course. And so is everybody else’s, for that 
matter.” 

“Then, what on earth are we to do?” demanded 
the girl. 

At that moment Pennington, who had been look¬ 
ing through the doorway, raised a warning finger. 
Monica turned to see the benevolent face of Chai- 
Hung regarding her from the wooden steps that led 
to the veranda. Over his head hung the inevi¬ 
table red umbrella, and an undersized coolie, ill- 
favored and humpbacked, looked discreetly in the 
background. The notorious Oriental, ponderous, 
immense in his white tunic and baggy silk trousers, 


CHAI-HUNG SPRINGS A SURPRISE 41 


bent himself nearly double before the English girl. 
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Yiney. How d’ you do, Mr. 
Pennington? Is his Excellency the Commissioner 
at home?” 

Monica blinked at the preposterous gold watch- 
chain that stretched across his chest. 

“I ’m afraid he’s out, Mr. Chai-Hung,” she said, 
aware all the while of a strange huskiness in her 
throat. 

The Celestial clasped his hands in front of him. 

“Ah! I feared so. Is he likely to be absent long?” 

Pennington rose wearily and crossed to the rail. 

“He ’ll be back in the evening, if you care to 
drop in,” he ventured affably. “Perhaps you 
would like to leave a message?” 

Chai-Hung cleared his throat. 

“I came in by the train this afternoon,” he said 
in a rasping voice that jarred on Monica’s nerves 
like tearing silk. “I came a trifle out of my way 
to suggest that a little more police vigilance might 
be exerted in the district in which my estate lies. 
An unpleasant incident occurred there last night 
which might probably be the forerunner of further 
crimes of a similar nature. Mr. Allison, an assist¬ 
ant on a local plantation, was the victim of what I 
believe you call ‘a gang murder.’ ” 

Pennington’s brain reeled. 

“Allison?” he gasped. 

The Oriental nodded calmly. 


42 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“It appears he was the bearer of a considerable 
sum of money with which to pay the coolies, and 
stayed a trifle too long at a friend’s bungalow.” 
He bowed again as if to move away. “I thought 
I’d let you know, more especially as it happens 
to be the first incident of the kind in our .neigh¬ 
borhood.” 

“Thanks,” said Pennington dryly. “I’m much 
obliged. It’s a queer thing, Mr. Chai-Hung, but 
I’d always regarded your territory free from this 
sort of thing; I rather fancied it was because you 
were there!” 

For the fraction of a second the eyes of Chai- 
Hung flashed fire. 

“I’m afraid I scarcely understand you, Mr. 
Pennington,” he returned presently. 

“Is there anything else?” inquired the English¬ 
man, ignoring his remark. 

The most respected Chinaman in Borneo swal¬ 
lowed something in his throat and produced an 
envelope from his tunic pocket. 

“Perhaps you would be kind enough to hand this 
to Captain Hewitt. It was found near the scene 
of the tragedy and might serve to throw some light 
on the affair.” 

Pennington took the envelope between finger and 
thumb. 

“I assume that the crime was enacted within 


CHAI-HUNG SPRINGS A SURPRISE 43 


reasonable distance of your bouse, Mr. Chai-Hung?” 

“Unpleasantly so.” 

“And this—clue was discovered by one of your 
men?” 

The Oriental’s face was utterly devoid of ex¬ 
pression when he replied. 

“It was found —by me” 

“That’s damned interesting,” he said half to him¬ 
self. “I wonder if you could manage to pass this 
way again, say to-morrow morning, about ten?” 

Chai-Hung shook his head slowly from side to 
side. 

“I’m afraid that w T ould be utterly impossible.” 

“Going away?” inquired Pennington casually, 
glancing toward the long wooden jetty glistening 
white in the rays of the afternoon sun. 

The corners of the Chinaman’s mouth twitched. 

“I may possibly be absent from my residence— 
for an indefinite period,” he announced loftily. “I 
shall be obliged if you w T ill inform his Excellency 
the Commissioner that one of my secretaries will 

attend promptly to any correspondence he may 
think necessary.” 

He turned abruptly and made his way downward 
toward the dusty road. 

“Well?” demanded Monica eagerly, as soon as 
the Celestial and his hunchbacked satellite were out 
of ear-shot. “What do you make of thatt” 



44 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


Chinese Pennington leaned against the wooden 
rail, his long back describing a bulge in the flimsy 
blind. 

“It’s perfectly amazing/’ he admitted. “I’m 
dashed sorry for poor old Allison of course, but 
it’s the main issue that interests me at this mo¬ 
ment. Look at the staff-work! He deliberately or¬ 
ganizes a tragedy almost on his own door-step, 
and calmly arranges things so that he will be the 
first to bring the news to the commissioner. Then, 
as if the affair were n’t sufficiently complicated al¬ 
ready, he presents us with one of these delightful 
little symbols, for all the world as though he’d 
never seen one in his life! Ye gods!” 

He slid a finger under the flap of the envelope 
and tore it open. Monica, wide-eyed and wonder¬ 
ing, saw him draw out a thin strip of card. He 
held the thing with its black back before her, then 
twisted his fingers so that she could see the bright 
yellow surface of its other side, and the seven 
black dots with which it was ornamented. 

“The Yellow .Seven!” she whispered hoarsely. 

Pennington left the rail and began pacing the 
veranda, the dead end of a cigarette still hanging 
from his lips. 

“His agents are everywhere,” he ventured pres¬ 
ently. “Even his visit this afternoon was care¬ 
fully calculated so that he should run no risk of 
encountering your brother on his way. He knew, 


CHAI-HUNG SPRINGS A SURPRISE 45 


he must have known, that Hewitt was lunching 
with the governor at Sandakan. He is undoubt¬ 
edly equally aware that the commissioner is re¬ 
turning with the warrant in his pocket, fully 
signed and approved—the warrant for the arrest 
of our friend, Chai-Hung!” 

“Then that is why—” 

“That is why he is going away for an indefinite 
period. Having apparently destroyed any evi¬ 
dence we may have as to his complicity in the re¬ 
cent outrages against whites, he avoids the possible 
inconvenience of a temporary imprisonment—by 
quietly disappearing!” 

Monica’s forehead wrinkled. 

“Ought n’t you to do something?” 

Pennington smiled grimly. 

“In spite of the high rate of mortality among 
my henchmen,” he said cheerfully, “I still control 
a fairly effective intelligence department. Chai- 
Hung is being watched, night and day.” 

Monica uttered a deep sigh of contentment and 
sank back into her cushions. 

“Then I don’t see that there’s much to bother 
about. You ’re bound to get him.” 

“You’d think so, would n’t you? I used to think 
so—once. But that was when I allowed myself to 
be carried away by youthful enthusiasm. There’s 
something about Chai-Hung that baffles one at 
every turn. He’s a past-master of cunning, an en- 


46 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


thusiastic student of every diabolical crime in ex¬ 
istence, but, beyond all that, he’s gifted with an 
intuition, a sort of second sight, that borders 
on the supernatural. By all the laws of common 
sense, my net is drawn round Chai-Hung so tightly 
that escape is impossible, and yet—•” 

Monica flushed. 

“You ’ll get him, Mr. Pennington,” she told him 
with assurance. 

“You think so?” 

There was the light of conviction in her blue 
eyes when she met his gaze. 

“I’d put my shirt on it!” she declared. 


CHAPTER V 


THE COMMISSIONER DISAPPEARS 

H EWITT swung into view a bare half- 
hour after the fall of darkness, and 
found his sister waiting for him on the 
threshold. She restrained herself un¬ 
til he was bending over the table that supported 
the inevitable whisky, then patted the sidepockets 
of his jacket. 

“Have you got it?” she whispered suddenly. 
The commissioner drew himself to his full height 
and looked down at her. He saw the warm color 
mounting to her cheeks and smiled reprovingly. 
“Got what?” 

She rose up on tiptoe and whispered in his ear. 
“You’ve been hearing more state secrets than 
are good for you,” he laughed. “Why do you 
ask?” 

She stood looking out into the tropic darkness 
to where a host of twinkling lights reflected in 
the surface of a restless ocean. 

“Chai-Hung called here this afternoon.” 

Hewitt started. 

“This afternoon!” he echoed incredulously. 

47 



THE YELLOW SEVEN 


48 

V 

She nodded. 

“He asked if you were in, and said he was going 

4 

away for some time. Mr. Pennington was here, 
too. He ’ll tell you all about it.” 

The commissioner passed a hand through his 
hair. 

“Where is Pennington now?” 

“I have n’t seen him since tea.” 

A sudden movement in the garden attracted her 
attention. She stepped close up to the rail and 
peered into the blackness. Standing half in the 
shadow of a stunted palm, she saw a tall, gaunt 
figure, with a loose costume of pale-blue material, 
such as she once remembered seeing Pennington 
wear. The figure stood motionless, scarcely visible 
beyond the rays of yellow light. Monica caught 
her brother’s sleeve and pulled him forward. 

“There’s a man out there, Jack,” she told him 
softly. “Do you know him?” 

The commissioner looked. 

“It’s Pennington, I suppose,” he growled pres¬ 
ently. “What the devil’s he want to hang about 
the house like that for!” 

At that moment the scarecrow raised an arm and 
beckoned. 

Monica turned. 

“He wants you to go down. Did you see?” 

The commissioner emptied his glass and stuck 
both hands in his pockets. 


THE COMMISSIONER DISAPPEARS 49 


“How are we for time?” 

She consulted her wrist-watch. 

“You ’ye twenty minutes before dinner. Don’t 
stop out too long. The boy’s been in twice al¬ 
ready to see if you had come back and wanted ' 
your bath.” 

Hewitt looked at his glass, at the square bottle, 
and back at Monica. Thirty seconds later he had 
passed down the steps, making his way toward the 
tree. He paused for a moment, looking to left and 
to right, then disappeared. 

Mrs. Yiney went in to dress for dinner. 

The deep-toned Duson gong, reverberating in the 
stillness of the night, brought her back to the 
veranda. Her brother was nowhere to be seen. 
She hurried down the passage to his room, 
tapped on the door, then, getting no response, 
looked in. The room was empty, and a glance suf¬ 
ficed to tell her that he had not been there. The 
neatly piled clean clothes were still where the serv¬ 
ant had put them, carefully folded on a chair by 
his bed. Her mind slightly troubled, she invaded 
his office, remembering the blissful absent-minded¬ 
ness he was wont to display with regard to meals 
when business worries obsessed him. She was 
about to turn away when something unusual 
caught her eye. As she stepped toward the writ¬ 
ing-table a grim sense of impending disaster swept 
over her, momentarily impeding all movement. 


50 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


She thrust it from her resolutely and, with both 
hands resting on the wooden surface, gazed horror- 
stricken at a dagger with a gilt handle that stuck 
upright in the table, its thin steel blade impal¬ 
ing a heap of torn paper fragments. Dimly, as 
her powers of reasoning stole back to her, she 
realized that the tattered document was the war¬ 
rant for the arrest of Chai-Hung and that the yel¬ 
low handle of the knife bore seven distinct black 
dots on the side that was turned toward her. 

She recoiled slowly, her hands clasped to her 
head, her eyes still glued to the horrible appari¬ 
tion. Suddenly she became aware that Penning¬ 
ton, serene, immaculate, was at her elbow. 

She swung round on him fiercely. 

“Mr. Pennington, what does all this mean? 
Where is Jack? What have you done with him?” 

Pennington was frankly puzzled. 

“Jack? Captain Hewitt? I have n’t seen him. 
Is he back yet?” 

Monica caught her breath. 

“Somebody beckoned to him from the garden,” 
she raced on wildly. “We both thought it was 
you. Jack went out. He hasn’t dressed for 
makan , and there’s that on his table. For God’s 
sake tell me what it all means!” 

Pennington guided her to a chair, then bent over 
the dagger. A second later he had rushed from the 
room toward the kitchen-quarters. 


THE COMMISSIONER DISAPPEARS 51 


She heard the voluble tones of the cook-boy, a 
yell of pain, the dragging of a heavy body along 
the floor, and the servant was flung like a sack into 
the office, still clinging to a flimsy box with a 
metal handle, the only luggage he had brought with 
him when he arrived. 

Pennington slammed the door and leaned against 
it, panting for breath. 

“Get up, you swine!” he said sternly. “Get up 
and find your tongue or, by heaven! I ’ll flay you 
alive!” 

The boy scrambled up and stood sullenly in the 
center of the room, fidgeting with bare toes on the 
soles of his straw sandals. 

“You will lead me to Chai-Hung!” said Penning¬ 
ton, presently. 

At the very sound of the name the Oriental 
trembled visibly, waving his arms wildly in front 
of him as if to ward off some hideous specter. 

The Englishman caught him by both shoulders 
and shook him violently. A volume of inarticulate 
grunts followed. Pennington plucked the knife 
from the woodwork. 

“Mrs. Viney,” he said, “do you mind waiting 
for me in the dining-room?” 

At the entrance she looked back. 

“What are you going to do ?” she demanded fear¬ 
fully. 

He shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. 


52 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“Please go,” he whispered hoarsely. “Don’t you 
see? I ’ye got to use every method I know to en¬ 
able me to get on the track of your brother—be¬ 
fore it’s too late.” 

She shuddered involuntarily. Collecting her¬ 
self with an effort, she crept from the room, closing 
the door after her. 

In the grim half-hour that followed she lost all 
sense of time. She looked up suddenly to see 
Pennington before her. 

“I’m just off,” he said quietly. 

“Then you know—” 

“He told me as much as I want to know.” 

She regarded him doubtfully. 

“It all sounds so utterly hopeless,” she declared. 
“I don’t doubt for one single moment that he has 
told you something, but what is his information 
worth? How much of it can be relied on?” 

Pennington was leaning against the table, eat¬ 
ing morsels of bread and cheese alternately. 

“You must remember, Mrs. Viney,” he told her 
between mouthfuls, “that I have made it my busi¬ 
ness to study the movements of our arch-bandit. 
It would be impossible for me to know all his hid¬ 
ing-places, but I have discovered a good few of 
them—sufficient, I fancy, to enable me to sift fact 
from fiction. Wong-See, the intelligent youth I 
collared in the act of making a graceful but hur¬ 
ried exit, is happily a poor sort of creature when 


THE COMMISSIONER DISAPPEARS 53 


brought face to face with the more serious prob¬ 
lems of this life. By dint of dire threats and much 
patience, I gathered he was on the point of pro¬ 
ceeding directly to Chai-Hung’s lair, to the place, 
apparently, where your brother has been taken. 
In effect, w r e have arrived at a sublimely delightful 
compromise. Wong-See is between Scylla and 
Charybdis; if he fails to join Chai-Hung the 
vengeance of that gentleman will fall upon him 
swiftly and surely, whether he seeks refuge in 
China or any old island in the archipelago. He 
knows that. The remaining horn of the dilemma 
is—” he stuck his tongue in his cheek—“death by 
the most horrible torture imaginable, at the hands 
of ‘He Who Sees in the Dark’; otherwise, myself! 
Now comes the compromise. He is to proceed to 
Chai-Hung’s hiding-place, as he had originally in¬ 
tended, only with Chinese Pennington, armed to 
the teeth, in his immediate rear. In this manner, 
he stands a sporting chance of dodging a horrible 
end at the hands of either.” 

He reached for his hat. 

Before he could turn the handle Monica had 
slipped between him and the door. 

“You ’re not going alone?” 

“Most certainly.” 

She stamped her foot impatiently. 

“You mustn’t do that!” she cried. “It’s posi¬ 
tively absurd. Supposing there are others waiting 


54 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


for Wong-See in the Jungle? Supposing you are 
surrounded, what can you hope to do?” 

“I ’ve been in mighty tight corners before, Mrs. 
Viney,” he reminded her gently, “and I’ve man¬ 
aged to squirm out of ’em somehow. One thing I 
do know: if I attempt to start out wflth a crowd of 
native soldiers, the information will be tapped 
out on some mysterious native telegraph system 
almost before the men have left the barracks. 
Hewitt will be spirited away to a forest fastness 
which even our guide may not know, and the 
chances of rescue will become a thousand times 
more remote.” 

“One more could n’t possibly do any harm,” pro¬ 
tested Monica obstinately. 

“I’m not taking any chances,” said Pennington 
bluntly. 

“Take me!” said the girl, flushed to the roots of 
her hair. 

“You!” 

“Why not? I ’ll promise not to be frightened 
by—anything I should see; I should be at my wits’ 
end if you left me here alone.” Her voice broke. 
“If Chai-Hung is plotting against one of us, why 
should n’t he send for me while you are away? 
If he is trying to stamp out all knowledge of the 
Yellow Seven, he must realize by now that I know 
of its existence as well as you.” 

Pennington glanced hurriedly at his watch, and 


THE COMMISSIONER DISAPPEARS 55 


Monica, following his every movement, saw that 
her argument had gone home. She seized his 
jacket impulsively with both hands. 

“You’re not going to leave me, are you?” 

Pennington’s one weakness lay in his utter inex¬ 
perience of the opposite sex. He pushed her gently 
aside and threw open the door. 

“Come on, then,” he said, with a gruffness that 
was new to her. “There’s an electric torch in 
the right-hand drawer of your brother’s desk. We 
may want it.” 

Trembling with excitement, she hurried in search 
of it, joining him a few minutes later at the foot 
of the veranda steps. Almost at the same spot 
where she had seen the man who had impersonated 
Pennington, the cook -boy —his absurd portmanteau 
at his side—awaited the order to proceed. 

Soon they had left the beaten track and were 
threading their way through tangled undergrowth, 
under branches so closely interwoven as to ex¬ 
clude the stars, the humming of countless legions 
of insects in their ears, the bright light of the 
electric torch describing an illuminated circle on 
the back of Wong-See. Monica, clinging tightly 
to Pennington’s arm, only trembled once; and that 
was when a snake shot suddenly across the path, 
barely a foot in front of her, and her companion 
swept her unceremoniously behind him until the 
thing had passed. 



56 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


Presently they emerged upon a seemingly end¬ 
less expanse of open paddy-land where water- 
buffaloes splashed noisily, lifting their great, 
square snouts to the heavens at the approach of 
the white man. And yet this area, the chess-board 
sections of which reflected the countless constella¬ 
tions like so many mirrors, was not so astonish¬ 
ingly infinite, for in an appreciably short space 
of time they were among the trees again, with a 
monkey colony gibbering dreamily overhead. 

The night air blew suddenly chill, and a slight 
shiver ran through her. Her companion brought 
his head to a level with hers. 

“Cold?” he demanded softly. 

Monica smiled up at him. 

“Not really. Actually I’m supremely content. 
I’m seeing the East as I’ve never been allowed to 
see it before. I ? m gathering dozens and dozens 
of fresh impressions.” 

They relapsed into silence again; and Penning¬ 
ton, aware of a smoldering, inconsumable fire 
within, glanced covertly at the trim figure of the 
amazingly attractive widow who kept pace with 
him, and was profoundly glad that he had let her 
come. There were times when he was seized with a 
fierce, primitive desire to sweep her into his arms 
and bear her away into the depths of the virgin 
forest, but these acute, inward promptings were of 
short duration, crowded out of his being by the 


THE COMMISSIONER DISAPPEARS 57 


memory of what lay before. Almost unconsciously 
he quickened his step until Monica found herself 
compelled to run to keep up with him. 

She tripped over a root that crossed the ill 
marked path, and stumbled against him, gasping 
for breath. 

“I’m so sorry,” she panted. “I—simply—can’t 
—do—it!” 

It suddenly dawned on him that he had not 
been taking her into account. He steadied her 
with his arm, apologizing profusely. 

Looking up, he saw that their guide had disap¬ 
peared. 

This was the first serious hitch that had occurred. 
There was no time for ceremony. Swearing softly 
to himself, he carried her the next thirty yards, 
rested her against a tree, and flashed his torch 
like a search-light, sweeping it in all directions. 
Suddenly, as his hopes bordered dangerously on 
zero, he plunged forward and caught the delin¬ 
quent cowering behind a thorn-bush. He drew the 
shivering Wong-See from his hiding-place and, 
swinging him clear from the ground until some 
portion of his garments tore, kicked him unmerci¬ 
fully and with astonishing accuracy. 

The remedy proved efficacious, for, throughout 
the final phases of the nocturnal expedition, Wong- 
See made no further attempt to elude his captor! 


CHAPTER VI 


THE HUT IN THE CLEARING 

Y —If —^HE guide stopped abruptly, dropping to 
bis bands and knees, and Pennington, 
creeping up to bim, extinguished the 
torch. Monica, her hands torn and 
bleeding, her neck, wrists, and ankles so many itch¬ 
ing zones where the thirsty bloodsuckers of the 
jungle bad taken their toll, felt herself forced from 
the main track by the sudden pressure of her com¬ 
panion’s left arm. Ahead of them, scarcely twenty 
paces distant, a light flickered for a moment and 
then went out. 

Pennington’s lips, pressed against her ear, 
breathed two words: “Cliai-Hung’s sentry!” 

The simple phrase, scarcely more audible than 
the gentle rustling of the leaves overhead, sent her 
heart throbbing wildly against her ribs, the hot 
blood coursing through h,er veins. For the first 
time since she had started out with Pennington, 
she allowed her thoughts to dwell on the grim mo¬ 
tive that had brought her from the bright lights 
of the coast-town to the fringes of the illimitable 
beyond. Forgotten was the existence of every- 

58 



THE HUT IN THE CLEARING 


59 


thing that crawled and bit and stung, the possible 
proximity of some hungry denizen of the forest; 
she was only aware of an inestimable value of the 
minutes that were fast slipping by, of an over¬ 
whelming desire to thrust aside all obstacles that 
lay between her and her brother. 

Pennington’s hand had left her arm, and a sub¬ 
dued, restless, yet constant something was going 
on at her side. Presently she felt a solid mass 
press against her and found that she was gripping 
the torch that Pennington had thrust toward her. 
She groped wildly in the darkness with her free 
hand, and a nameless terror seized her. For a 
matter of seconds her heart stood still, for in the 
space where she had believed Pennington to be— 
there was nothing. Her fingers dropped suddenly 
to a warm, motionless body that lay prostrate at 
her side. 

She withdrew her hand, shuddering inwardly, 
and somehow the torch flashed in the blackness, 
sending a bar of brilliant light straight down the 
track that stretched before her. She saw a hud¬ 
dled form, seated on what might have been a fallen 
trunk and then, before the creature—surprised by 
the illumination—could bestir itself, a white-clad 
figure had sprung from the trees and overwhelmed 
it. 

She saw no more, for her thumb had found the 
switch and pushed it desperately into place. She 



60 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


knew now that the form she had touched was that 
of the miserable Wong-See, who was as effectively 
gagged and bound as it was possible to be. 

“Come on,” said the hoarse voice of Pennington 
in her ear. “I fancy I ’ve cleared the path.” 

He held out his hand and she scrambled to her 
feet. She was beginning to understand the rea¬ 
son for her brother’s deep-rooted confidence in this 
amazing man, with the strength and courage of a 
primeval savage, and the table-manners of a prince! 
His very presence seemed to inspire her with re¬ 
newed vitalitv. 

e/ 

So cautious were their movements after this that 
Monica felt prompted to cry aloud, to laugh, do 
anything to relieve the appalling monotony, to 
break that eery silence in which even the forest 
creatures seemed to have become suddenly dumb. 
A broad, squat shadow loomed presently in front of 
them, a tumble-down wooden erection from which 
issued the sound of subdued voices like the croak¬ 
ing of bullfrogs in the swamps. Pennington drew 
her along with him toward a spot where a faint 
light showed between the rotting timbers. 

Crouching in the weeds that rose waist-high in 
the clearing, she peered through. It was a dreary, 
one-roomed affair, its inner walls reeking with 
moisture and covered with a species of giant fun¬ 
gus. In the center of the apartment, around a 
broad, stone slab, she counted seven Orientals, 


THE HUT IN THE CLEARING 


61 


squatting with no apparent discomfort on the un¬ 
even floor. His back to her, clad in a gorgeous 
jacket of dark blue silk on which was embroidered 
a many-headed dragon, sat an elderly Chinaman 
whose enormous proportions could belong to no 
other man she had yet seen than the arch-criminal 
of infinite resource whom Pennington sought to 
secure red-handed. 

On the stone slab, like so many sponge-fingers, 
Chinese playing-cards were spread face downward, 
and, even as the girl bent forward, a yellow hand 
began passing to and fro over the surface of the im¬ 
provised table, sweeping the cards into a jumbled 
heap. 

Each drew a card except the man whose back was 
toward her, who sat motionless as a carved figure, 
silent and watchful as the Sphinx. She saw the 
cards turned so that they formed the nucleus of 
seven packs, their converging circles of black and 
red—whose values were past her comprehension— 
slowly clearing in the light of a hurricane-lamp 
that hung, askew, from a beam. The light flick¬ 
ered, and an arm shot up from the huddled group 
and raised the wick. For a moment it flared to the 
roof, illuminating every corner of the building, and 
Monica gasped. Half-hidden behind a log lay the 
commissioner of police. His arms were stretched 
out beyond his head, his wrists secured by leathern 
thongs and his knees drawn up almost to his chest. 


62 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


Hie tunic was torn open at the neck, displaying a 
broad V of gauze singlet. A lump rose in her 
throat as she realized that his chest rose and fell 
with rhythmic regularity. The head came slowly 
round, and the prostrate man gazed inquiringly 
toward the squatting circle. As if realizing that 
she had seen, Pennington’s fingers closed on her 
arm, and at that instant she understood the signifi¬ 
cance of those seven ever-increasing piles of greasy 
cards. They were drawing for the yellow seven! 

A queer, tingling sensation stole over her. She 
closed her eyes to still the throbbing of her fevered 
brain. She opened them again and, acting on a 
sudden impulse, glanced up at Pennington. He 
was kneeling on the soft earth, one eye to the 
narrower portion of the chink that served as a 
spy-hole, while the barrel of his automatic was 
thrust partly through the wider extremity of the 
aperture. She caught something of the infection 
of the calm that seemed to pervade his being and 
looked back into the hut in time to see a tall China¬ 
man in black rise to his full length, a hideous grin 
illuminating his swarthy features. The guttural 
chattering began again; the cards were swept into 
a neat pack, disappearing into the capacious sleeve 
of the man who had originally spread them out; 
and the hand of the Oriental who held the yellow 
seven slipped to his waist. 

Every head was turned toward the commissioner 


THE HUT IN THE CLEARING 


63 


as a long blade flashed in the lamplight, and the 
Chinamen, still gesticulating, rose one by one, 
spreading themselves out along the walls; but the 
figure in the mandarin jacket embroidered with a 
many-headed dragon remained in precisely the 
same position as that in which Monica had first 
seen him. 

The tall Oriental in black drew back his sleeve 
and tested the blade with a grimy thumb. A sud¬ 
den hush fell upon the entire assembly, and the 
girl, cramped and trembling, became aware of the 
ticking of the watch at her wrist. In all this 
ghastly nightmare, these ceaseless, regular pulsa¬ 
tions rang out as the only link with the normal ex¬ 
istence she had left behind. She tried to think of 
the bungalow on the hill, the long cane chairs with 
their many cushions, the winding path that led, 
ribbon-like, to the road, the wooden jetty where 
the coasting-steamers lay at anchor; but these 
phantom creatures refused to materialize, and her 
eyes, sore and tingling, gazed straight before her, 
fixed, because she was powerless to withdraw them, 
upon the man on whom the lot had fallen to de¬ 
stroy her brother. 

Some one came forward and threw aside the 
log, and the hand that held the knife swung sud¬ 
denly aloft. 

Pennington’s pistol broke upon the stillness, 
sending Monica’s hands helplessly to her ears, echo- 


64 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


ing and reechoing in the jungle wastes. The man 
with the dagger spun round awkwardly—and col¬ 
lapsed in a heap. Cries of mingled terror and 
alarm resounded on every side, and a hand, reach¬ 
ing upward, plunged the building in darkness. 

Monica and Pennington rose simultaneously. 

“Stop where you are,” he called back to her. 
“Lie close up to the wall. They ’ll be too scared to 
look for you there.” 

He raced on toward the entrance, and Monica, 
almost too dazed to catch the meaning of his words, 
too frightened in any case to obey, followed in his 
wake. As she stumbled through the undergrowth, 
clutching at the wall for support, she remembered 
that she still carried the torch. Vague shadowy 
forms slithered past her, stampeding as if sur¬ 
prised by a regiment of soldiers. She heard them 
crashing away into the distance and somewhere a 
man screamed in mortal terror as he ran, as if fear¬ 
ful that the friend who strove to keep pace with 
him might be the avenging Englishman seeking his 
life. 

As their footsteps died away in the distance, 
Monica switched on the torch. The door of the 
building stood wide open before her, and she let the 
light travel from left to right, from Pennington 
kneeling over something on the floor to the huddled 
heap that sprawled awkwardly within a foot of 
where her brother lay. She ran forward with a 


THE HUT IN THE CLEARING 


65 


little cry and fell on her knees at his side. She 
was reaching out for the knife the Chinaman had 
]et fall when a voice called to her from the dark¬ 
ness. 

“Monica—er—Mrs. Yiney! Just switch that 
light over here a second. There’s something I 
don’t quite understand.” 

The commissioner stirred, and his eyes blinked 
up at her. 

With shaking hands, she steered the narrow ray 
until it concentrated on the disgusted features of 
Chinese Pennington, who was slowly rising to his 
feet from the thing over which he had been kneel¬ 
ing. 

She saw a preposterous effigy, a cunningly con¬ 
trived figure of straw, with china mask and hands, 
over which a coat of blue, embroidered with a 
many-headed dragon, was still drawn! 

From somewhere beneath the decaying boards, 
a cricket screamed in shrill-voiced derision! 



CHAPTER VII 


BRABAZON TAKES A HAND 

A WEEK after his rescue of Hewitt from 
the clutches of the Yellow Seven, Pen¬ 
nington met Brabazon standing outside 
the rest-house at Jesselton, his hands 
stuck deep in his trouser pockets, following with 
evident admiration the easy, elegant gait of a 
Malay girl who was making her way toward the 
harbor. 

“Pennington, by all that’s wonderful!” 

The taller man extended a hand. 

“I’ve been here three solid months, and I did n’t 

know you were on the island. How are you?” 

“Fit as a fiddle! You look flourishing. Come 

in and have a sling.” 

Chinese Pennington looked at his watch. 

“I can give you half and hour, old son,” he told 

him. “I’m due at the commissioner’s at four.” 

He followed Brabazon up the rickety stairs to 

the broad veranda that overlooked the road. He 

dropped into a long chair, and his companion 

perched himself on the arm of it, beaming all over 

his broad, handsome face. 

66 


BRABAZON TAKES A HAND 67 

“Still at the same game?” he inquired presently, 
pushing forward his case. 

Pennington nodded. 

“Still hunting down the world’s worst crim¬ 
inals! . . . No, thanks, I roll my own.” 

He produced a rubber pouch and began ma¬ 
nipulating the flimsy paper with practised hand. 
Brabazon, who smoked the packet variety, tapped 
his cigarette on a broad thumb. 

“Three months!” he ejaculated presently, re¬ 
membering something that Pennington had said. 
“That’s a hell of a time for you to stop in one lo¬ 
cality, is n’t it?” 

The tall man with the Chinese eyes smiled 
grimly. 

“It is,” he admitted. “It’s a pretty significant 
sign into the bargain. It seems that I’m up 
against about the toughest proposition I’ve ever 
struck. How’re things up your way?” 

“Rotten! I’m thinking of chucking rubber— 
and turning my attention to oil. Rubber’s seen 
its day, you know. At present I’m at Ketatan. 
Know it?” 

Pennington started. 

“Ketatan! That’s where Allison was mur¬ 
dered by the Yellow Seven gang!” 

“That’s right. Decent little chap, Allison. 
Bit too fond of the bottle, though. He was on his 
way with a tidy sum of money to pay the men, 


68 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


and dropped off the train at Mortimer’s halt—be¬ 
cause he felt thirsty. Mortimer offered to put him 
up for the night, but he would n’t hear of it. They 
got him before he went half a mile! Rotten luck, 
was n’t it?” 

Pennington agreed. He was staring thought¬ 
fully at a cluster of flies on the wooden ceiling. 

“You’ve had no trouble since? No warnings 
or threatening communications?” 

“Nothing at all. It was a deuced unpleasant 
affair altogether, and rather knocked the wind out 
of us for a couple of weeks, but the excitement 
soon simmered down. Dawson rounded up the as¬ 
sassins, they tell me.” 

“Yes,” said the other without enthusiasm. 
“Dawson did his job pretty thoroughly, and the 
commissioner was no end pleased about it. I’m 
not saying it was n’t a smart bit of work. There 
were five of the swine, and we caught, tried, and 
eventually executed them with all due pomp and 
ceremony; but we did n’t succeed in getting any 
useful information out of ’em—that’s the devil of 
it! We’re no nearer the solution of the Yellow 
Seven mystery than we were when we started. 
You say your area’s quiet. I ’in glad of it. But in 
almost every other district these gang murders con¬ 
tinue, and until we get to the fountainhead they ’re 
likely to go on.” 


BRABAZON TAKES A HAND 


09 


Brabazon whistled. 

“You ’ll pardon my profound ignorance on the 
subject, I know; but what is this Yellow Seven?” 

The boy came in with the drinks Brabazon had 
ordered, and Pennington smoked placidly until he 
had disappeared. 

“The Yellow Seven is a card, like an ordinary 
Chinese playing-card,” he said, so softly that his 
companion was forced to lean forward to catch 
the words. “You know the things; as long as my 
forefinger, with rounded ends, black on one side— 
and a surface of dots on the other—some red, some 
black.” 

“And this one—” 

“This particular card has a bright yellow face, 
with seven dots on it, four above a faint line and 
three below it. It cropped up some time back, 
when Lady Stornaway’s diamond pendant disap¬ 
peared from Hewitt’s bungalow—” 

“I remember that,” broke in Brabazon. “But 
the commissioner got that back in a couple of 
days.” 

“7 got it back,” continued Pennington. “I’ll tell 
you all about it some day. There was another 
card connected with the Allison case, and a knife, 
bearing the same grim symbol on its handle, pre¬ 
ceded an attempt to assassinate the commissioner 
of police himself. Now the whole island’s seeth- 




70 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


ing with the cursed things, and Hewitt won’t hear 
of my leaving until I’ve secured the body of the 
ringleader, dead or alive!” 

Brabazon rose and hooked forward a chair with 
his toe. 

“Know who he is?” 

“The most respected Chinese gentleman in 
Borneo, until this business started,” declared the 
other. 

Brabazon dropped heavily into a chair. 

“Not Chai-Hung?” he whispered. 

“Why not?” demanded Pennington with a queer 
smile. 

“Good Lord! He hangs out within a stone’s 
throw of us! I’d have staked my last dollar on 
the respectability of Mr. Chai-Hung.” 

“I know.” 

Brabazon emptied his glass. 

“Why don’t you collar him?” 

“You don’t know Chai-Hung!” 

Brabazon grinned and felt for another cigarette. 

“Funny thing you should say that,” he drawled. 
“Because, as a matter of fact, I ran across him 
only yesterday.” 

Pennington sprang to his feet. 

“You—met—Chai-Hung?” 

“Certainly! I was up in the Tamil, looking for 
a pony. I was bargaining with a Bajau thief when 
Chai-Hung strolled up, large as life. I suppose 


BRABAZON TAKES A HAND 


71 


we chatted together roughly for half an hour.” 

Pennington leaned against the rail. 

“Did he ask which way you were going?” he de¬ 
manded presently. 

“As a matter of fact, I fancy he did; but I 
changed my mind at the last moment and dropped 
in at the Dutch padre’s for a liqueur.” 

As Pennington stood there, his eyes half closed, 
Brabazon, despite a friendship spread over a 
broken period of roughly ten years, found it dif¬ 
ficult to remember that his origin was purely Eng¬ 
lish. He surveyed him wonderingly, grimly appre¬ 
ciating the line of native reasoning that had led to 
his being called He Who Sees in the Dark. He 
had never seen Chinese Pennington in any of his 
many Oriental disguises, but from time to time 
strange tales had floated to his ears, stories of haz¬ 
ardous adventures in the backwoods that only those 
who were cognizant of Pennington’s extraordinary 
imitative powers, his knowledge of dialects, his tre¬ 
mendous resourcefulness, could possibly credit. 

“I’m more than glad you changed your route, 
old son,” Pennington assured him. “Because, if 
you had n’t, you would n’t be here now! and, for 
all your faults, you ’re one of the few men I 
should n’t care to lose sight of.” 

Brabazon’s broad face bore an expression of min¬ 
gled surprise and amusement. 

“WhaUs that? My faults?” 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


Pennington came slowly across the floor and 
dropped a heavy hand on his friend's shoulder. 

“I refer to the women, God bless ’em/’ he told 
him. 

“Oh, that! I was beginning to wonder—” 

“You were positively ogling one when I met 
you.” 

Brabazon crimsoned. He pressed his hand to 
his forehead. 

“When you came up? You don’t mean that 
Malay girl? My dear old idiot, surely a fellow 
can admire a certain regularity of feature with¬ 
out being called to account for it! What else was 
I to admire? You wouldn’t have me going into 
raptures over a stinking horde of under-dressed 
coolies engaged in reclaiming a mud-flat!” 

Pennington laughed. 

“You ’re a terrible man, Brabazon,” he said. “I 
remember a girl in Kuala Lumpur telling me that 
you were irresistible. How long are you stopping 
in town, by the bye?” 

“Going back by the morning train.” 

“I was only going to warn you that, if you do 
happen to meet the commissioner’s sister, just try 
and restrain that abnormal flow of personal mag¬ 
netism—for my sake.” 

“Oh ho!” remarked the planter, raising his 
eyebrows. “It’s like that, is it? What’s her 
name?” 


BRABAZON TAKES A HAND 73 

“Viney,” said Pennington. “Monica Viney. 
She ’s a widow.” 

“Pretty?” 

“I think so.” 

Brabazon winked wickedly. 

“I thought you said it was Chai-Hung who kept 
you cooling you heels in Jesselton?” 

“It is,” Pennington assured him earnestly. 
“But I’m not altogether sorry about it, all the 
same!” 

“I bet you ’re not! When’s it coming off?” 

Chinese Pennington gazed dreamily over the 
rail at a mingled crowd of colored men and 
women, black and brown and yellow, who made 
their way, chattering volubly, toward the Chinese 
shops.’” 

“Possibly not at all. I have n’t asked her opin¬ 
ion on the subject yet.” 

“Good heavens, man! What on earth are you 
waiting for?” 

Pennington turned. 

“I’m waiting until I’ve nailed Chai-Hung,” 
he declared. 

Brabazon scrambled to his feet and joined him. 
He stretched himself and yawned. 

“Want any help?” 

“Possibly.” 

“Then call on me for it. I’m just about fed 
up with the life I’m leading. I’m sick to death 


74 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


of early morning roll calls, totting up endless 
clieck-rolls, riding Lord knows how many miles to 
watch people doing work they don’t want to do, 
under fat-leaved trees I ’ve learned to loathe the 
sight of. A thundering good row’d about clear 

mv head!” 

•/ 

“Thanks,” replied Pennington warmly. “I 
fancy you ’ll be in one before long.” 

“Good enough!” 

Brabazon rubbed his hands together in pleasur¬ 
able anticipation. 

“In the mean time, keep your weather-eye open 
for Chai-Hung. If there ? s nothing else for it, 
shoot him at sight. If you can manage it, avoid 
hitting him in a vital spot. There are one or two 
things I should like to* say to that gentleman be¬ 
fore he leaves this earth!” He glanced at his 
wrist-watch. “I must be going. I’m a trifle 
after my time as it is.” Slipping his arm through 
Brabazon’s, he made for the stair-head. “I 
would n’t drag you into this affair,” he added, “un¬ 
less I felt sure that you were well up to your 
neck in it already. Chai-Hung’s spies are every¬ 
where. He did n’t intend you to get back, once 
you’d seen him. He ’ll be still less inclined to 
spare you, now that you ? ve met me. Don’t go 
about unarmed. Glean any information you can, 
and let me know if anything unusual transpires.” 

They had reached the open street. 


BKABAZON TAKES A HAND 


75 


“I may drop across you at the club to-night,” 
said Brabazon. 

“I doubt it. You know my ways.” He paused 
and looked to where the gently heaving waters of 
the bay glistened yellow in the light of a sun 
that was already low in the western heavens. 
“It ’s a weary world, Brabazon,” he continued 
dreamily. “I can’t remember a time when I felt 
as I do now. I used to delight in these noctur¬ 
nal wanderings, these wild up-country treks.i 
The sheer risk of the thing was the very breath of 
life to me. I suppose it was because I was so 
utterly alone, because I had nobody to worry 
about except myself.” He glanced over his shoul¬ 
der half nervously, as if fearing the presence of 
an eavesdropper. “I fancy that if I manage to 
pull this through, I shall hand in my resignation. 
I wonder if you ’ll understand me. They kid¬ 
napped Hewitt, you know, and his sister came 
■with me to look for him. I did n’t make a fool 
of myself or anything of that sort, but a subtle 
change has crept over me ever since, until, for the 
first time in my life, I find myself a great deal 
too solicitous about my own welfare. Queer, 
isn’t it? Cheerio!” 

He was off up the road with long strides, leav¬ 
ing Brabazon looking after him. Presently the 
latter turned on his heel and went back to the 
cooler atmosphere of the veranda. 


76 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“Poor old Pennington!” he murmured to him¬ 
self, endeavoring to wriggle into a comfortable 
position on the cane chair. “He *s got it— 
badly!” 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE DAUGHTER OF CHAI-HUNG 

A S he had intended, Brabazon went back 
to Ketatan by the morning train. He 
had not seen Pennington since their 
meeting at the rest-house, but he had 
run into a lively crowd of brother planters and 
government men, and the climax of the inevitable 
“celebration” that followed had been something in 
the nature of a disaster. A dull but ever-present 
throbbing at his temples reminded him somewhat 
forcibly of this, as he manoeuvred the stiff slope 
from the railway-line and took the winding path 
that led to his sago-thatched bungalow. He re¬ 
flected that it was something to be thankful for 
that these visits to the coast-town occurred com¬ 
paratively rarely, both with regard to his pocket 
and state of health. 

Brabazon was a planter of considerable expe¬ 
rience. He knew just how much a coolie could 
be expected to do in a day, and how little he 
would endeavor to scrape through with if the 
Chinese mandor, who was his direct superior, be¬ 
came slack in the execution of his duties. He 

77 


78 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


was sensitive, too, to the least change in the atti¬ 
tude of his men toward himself; he could detect 
it in the poise of their bare shoulders as they 
weeded between the lines of rubber-trees, in the 
set of their brown faces, in the very atmosphere 
that surrounded them. As he went the rounds 
on his sturdy Bajau pony, a stout malacca tucked 
under one arm, he encountered nothing but veiled 
insolence and tasks half done. All day long he 
rode through shady avenues that were powerless 
against the penetrating rays of a fierce tropical 
sun, forcing discipline into the sullen inhabitants 
of coolie-lines, the smell of cooking rice in his 
nostrils, the nauseating stench of sweating bodies 
never leaving him. 

It was close on sundown when he regained his 
bungalow and threw the reins of his pony to the 
man who was working in the bleak wilderness he 
hoped to transform into a garden. He stumbled 
up the steps and dropped into a cane chair. The 
throbbing at his temples had ceased, but he was 
saddle-sore and weary, and he viewed the square 
bottle on the lacquer tray without enthusiasm. He 
was wandering who it was that had invaded the 
estate in his absence and sown the seeds of re¬ 
bellion in the minds of his men. On a neighbor¬ 
ing slope, barely half a mile distant, the last de¬ 
parting rays of a fiery orb kissed the quaint red 
tiles of Chai-Hung’s house. Thirty seconds later 


THE DAUGHTER OF CHAI-HUNG 79 


the country-side was wrapped in the gloom of a 
brief twilight, but this passing vision had started 
a new line of reasoning. Could this sudden wave 
of insubordination trace its source to the arch¬ 
bandit he had so innocently encountered in the 
Borneo hinterland? Was this a sort of prelim¬ 
inary canter, a careful preparing of the ground 
over which Chai-Hung’s agents would have to 
come in their endeavor to compass his doom? 

A cool breeze blew in from the sea, rustling 
the sago-thatch above his head, and presently 
darkness fell with its accustomed suddenness. By 
sheer force of habit, he reached for his glass, and, 
as he did so, something passed his cheek so closely 
that he felt the wind of it, and stuck, quivering, 
in the wooden wall behind him. 

He was still standing in the same position, star¬ 
ing straight before him, when the boy came in 
with the lamp. The servant mounted a chair and 
suspended it by a hook screwed into a blackened 
beam, and Brabazon, squaring his broad shoulders, 
uncorked the bottle. He poured himself out a 
stiff tot, swallowed it neat, and wheeled round in 
time to see his servant’s face, horribly contorted, 
his bulging eyes fixed on the spot on the wall 
where the thing had stuck. 

He was gazing at an arrow with a fine metal 
barb, its butt-end split to admit a long, narrow 
strip of pasteboard. On the side toward Bra- 


80 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


bazon was a bright yellow surface ornamented 
with a series of black circles. He crossed the 
veranda with rapid strides and plucked the thing 
from the woodwork. The boy was slipping past 
him, making for the kitchen, but the planter’s 
hand shot out and swung him round to face him. 
He held the dread symbol almost under the crea¬ 
ture’s nose. 

“What do you know of the Yellow Seven?” he 
demanded roughly. 

The Chinaman shivered like a man with the 
ague. 

“Nothing, tuan” he stammered fearfully. 
“Nothing at all.” 

“Then what the devil are you shivering for?” 

He threw him angrily from him. The Oriental 
tripped over a chair and got up, rubbing his head 
ruefully. 

“Because the tuan was angry,” he replied in¬ 
geniously. 

Brabazon stuck his legs wide apart and nodded 
his head several times, a grim smile playing on 
his lips. 

“Bi-la,” he said presently. “Clear out!” 

Mindful of Pennington’s warning and with an un¬ 
easy feeling gripping his spine, he sent a watch¬ 
man with an urgent note to Wallace, one of his 
juniors, requesting him to join him immediately 
and be prepared to spend the night. While wait- 


THE DAUGHTER OF CHAI-HUNG 81 


ing for the return of the messenger, he scribbled a 
short note to Pennington and inclosed with it the 
yellow seven. 

Dear Penn, [he wrote], I have just received the 
inclosed per arrow-post. If you are up this way, 
for the love of heaven look in! I’m not particularly 
scared of things I understand, but after your pro¬ 
phetic utterance, this has come as somewhat of a shock. 

Cheerio 

G. Brabazon. 

He licked the flap and stuck it down. A thought 
struck him, and he forced it open again. At the 
foot of the missive he added one sentence. 

Heard excellent accounts of Mrs. V. at the Club. 
All the luck in the world, old son! 

At dinner that evening he carefully dissected 
the various dishes his toy had seen fit to prepare 
but found no trace of powdered glass or other nox¬ 
ious ingredients with which Orientals are wont to 
poison their enemies. 

Wallace, a genial youth with sandy hair and 
freckled face, arrived at the foot of the veranda 
steps at about nine, followed by a coolie carrying a 
long bamboo pole with a basket of clothes sus¬ 
pended at one end and a pair of field-boots at the 
other. He was accompanied, moreover, by a large 
hound, short-haired and boisterous, displaying as 


82 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


many patches of irregular coloring as a camou¬ 
flaged vessel of war. 

“Evening, Brabazon! Don’t mind me bringing 
my dog, I hope? What’s in the wind?” 

He dropped into a chair and deposited hat and 
stick on the floor within easy reach. The China¬ 
man passed round to the back of the house, and 
the dog, having thoroughly inspected the veranda, 
disappeared down the central passageway common 
to Eastern houses, bent on a voyage of discovery. 

“Help yourself to a drink,” invited Brabazon. 
“To tell you the honest truth, I’m profoundly glad 
you’ve trotted that nameless beast along. He may 
come in useful. Some hungry Chinaman or other 
purloined my fox-terrier a week ago.” He re¬ 
leased the glass stopper of a bottle of soda-water 
and handed it across to Wallace. “You remember 
the Allison affair, of course. It appears that his 
assassination was by no means an ordinary act of 
highway robbery, but the work of a secret society. 
I have very good reason to believe an attempt is 
about to be made against myself, and that is pre¬ 
cisely why I thought it advisable to send for you.” 

Wallace sat bolt upright. 

“You ’re not pulling my leg?” 

Brabazon smiled. 

“Not in the least. I’m in deadly earnest. I’m 
afraid we ’re going to have a pretty rough time 
of it during the next few days. It’s hardly likely 


THE DAUGHTER OF CHAI-HUNG 83 


that any attempt will be made during the hours of 
daylight but we ’ll have to detail a reliable watch¬ 
man to patrol the house at night and take it turn 
and turn about to keep awake in case he gets 
picked off.” 

Wallace drew his chair closer, and for more than 
an hour they sat talking, while from the outer 
darkness no sound came but the distant coughing 
of a stag and the inevitable throbbing of hidden 
insect creation. 

Almost a week dragged on, a dreary stretch of 
normal working days and abnormal nights fraught 
with innumerable fruitless sorties, prompted, for 
the most part, by the restlessness of Wallace’s dog. 
The watchman, too, a tall, spare Pathan ex-cavalry¬ 
man, began to show signs of nerves and spoke of 
mysterious shadowy forms that failed to respond 
to his summons. Brabazon supplied him with a 
rifle, and on two occasions the sharp report of this 
obsolete make of weapon brought them upon the 
veranda to discover nothing more unusual than the 
pungent smell of powder borne to their nostrils 
on the soft, chill breeze of the early hours. 

Wallace, who was blessed with considerable in¬ 
ventive genius, suspended a burglar-alarm from the 
bushes that encircled the bungalow, a network of 
cotton and home-made bells that the dog succeeded 
in agitating so often that they were compelled to 
tie him up! 


84 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


On the seventh day, Brabazon woke to find him¬ 
self becoming skeptical with regard to the whole 
affair. Returning from the coolie-lines for break¬ 
fast, under a cloudless sky, he stopped abruptly 
half-way up the winding slope and looked toward 
the tall, distant peak of Kinabalu, its summit shin¬ 
ing white in the radiant sunshine. Presently he 
squared his shoulders and inhaled a deep breath. 
The game they were playing was not worth the 
candle. They were letting their imagination run 
away with them, frightened, like children, at mere 
shadows. It was not good enough! 

That afternoon he sent Wallace back to his bun¬ 
galow, dog and luggage and everything, and gave 
the watchman instructions to cease his nocturnal 
perambulations and hand in his rifle. He would 
have destroyed Wallace’s burglar-alarm if he had 
noticed it, but he did not, and at a few minutes 
after midnight, it rang! As luck would have it, 
he was engaged in fanning a mosquito from his 
curtains, and had not turned in for the night. 

Swearing softly to himself, he took the hurri¬ 
cane-lamp and the revolver that recent occurrences 
had brought to light and went out. A sensation 
of unutterable loneliness seized him as he left the 
veranda, but he choked it down, regarding it as a 
purely natural feeling, now that his house was no 
longer garrisoned against invasion. 

The absurd line of tinkling bells rang for a sec- 


THE DAUGHTER OP CHAI-HUNG 85 


ond time, and he held the lamp well above his 
head, peering into the night. Suddenly he started 
back in amazement and quickened his step in the 
direction of a crouching, trembling figure that 
shrank back from him as he approached. The hard 
lines of his face softened as he went, and presently 
he stooped and lifted the slim form of a girl to her 
feet. She was simply clad, in a long-sleeved jacket 
of light blue silk, bordered with black, and quaint 
trousers of the same material. She wore no hat 
and her black hair w T as smoothed down over her 
head and wound into a knot behind. It dawned 
upon Brabazon, as he surveyed her in wonderment, 
that she was of a class superior to that to which he 
was accustomed, that her skin was rather white 
than olive, and that she was possessed of a beauty 
he had never imagined possible in a Chinese girl. 
Her hands were small and surprisingly well formed, 
and she clasped them in front of her, as if in sup¬ 
plication. 

“Who are you?” he demanded in Malay. 

She replied to him softly, like the gentle cooing 
of a dove, looking all the while at her finely em¬ 
broidered shoes. 

“Suey-Koo,” he thought she said. 

“Where do you come from?” 

She brightened suddenly and uttered a little nerv¬ 
ous laugh. 

“I am the daughter of Chai-Hung. The police 


86 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


have driven my father from his home. They came 
and searched the house, and I ran away, because I 
was frightened. When I tried to find my way 
back I could not. In the darkness I saw the lights 
of your windows. . . 

He took her cold, trembling fingers between his 
own and forced her, half-unwillingly, up the steps 
to a comfortable chair. She sat on the extreme 
edge, staring with childlike surprise at the unac¬ 
customed surroundings. 

“You must have something to eat, Suey-Koo,” he 
said. She shook her head. 

“I am not hungry. I only want to go home.” 

He remembered that he was clad only in the 
sarong and singlet in which he was accustomed to 
sleep. 

“Wait just a little while, and I will take you,” 
he told her. 

It must be remembered that the weakest link in 
this otherwise efficient human chain was his in¬ 
ordinate susceptibility to the fair sex. As he 
changed with feverish energy into the suit of khaki 
drill he had so recently discarded, the wave of feel¬ 
ing that her coming had provoked swept like an 
ever-swelling stream throughout his whole being, 
overwhelming the sense of reason. Forgotten—in 
his wild eagerness for conquest of this timid, frag¬ 
ile creature, lovely as the lotus-flower—were the 
immutable laws of East and West, the warning of 


THE DAUGHTER OF CHAI-HUNG 87 


Chinese Pennington, her very connection, in fact, 
with the unscrupulous bandit who controlled the 
dread movements of the Yellow Seven. Suey-Koo 
had infused into the atmosphere of that lonely 
bungalow some subtle influence which, like strong 
wine, had gone to his head. If he had paused to 
think, he would have remembered that Chai-Hung’s 
extraordinary powers of observation had led him 
to discover the inherent weaknesses of every Eng¬ 
lishman he had met, and that by reason of such 
knowledge he had profited more than a score of 
times. 

guey-Koo had stumbled into the burglar-alarm 
that Wallace had made, and yet it never occurred 
to Brabazon, secure in the fool’s paradise that his 
frailty had built up, that the unerring finger of 
the great Chai-Hung was behind all this, and that 
this seemingly helpless girl was but another of the 
astute Oriental’s cunning instruments, instructed 
to decoy the planter to her father’s lair! 

A girl in Kuala Lumpur had told Pennington 
that Brabazon was irresistible! Whatever the 
significance of Suey-Koo’s midnight mission may 
have been, with the homeward journey barely half 
completed, she found herself nestling contentedly 
within the Englishman’s encircling arm, for all the 
world as if that member had every right to be 
where it was. They passed through coolie-lines, 
clusters of long huts echoing with the noise of bois- 


88 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


terous slumberers, and soon they were back among 
the trees again, the leaves above them rustling 
faintly in the soft wind from the sea. 

“Brabazon!” 

From somewhere behind him, the planter heard 
himself called. He released the girl and swung 
round. 

Standing in the open space between the huts 
that he had just left, he saw Wallace and the Pa- 
than watchman. He waited until they had caught 
up with him. 

“What is it, Wallace ?” he demanded, somewhat 
testily. 

“Look here, Brabazon, I’m sorry to butt in and 
all that, but is n’t this a trifle unwise? The area 
beyond our wire’s simply swarming with Chai- 
Hung’s men.” 

Brabazon started. 

“Who told you that?” 

“Pennington,” returned the assistant. “I’ve 
just seen him. He told me to advise you to send 
the watchman with Miss Chai*Hung.” 

“Pennington?” His brain reeled. “How the 
devil did he know?” He bit his lip. “I suppose 
he’s hanging around on one of his stunts. Of 
course Chai-Hung’s men are about. Why not? 
They ’re looking for the girl. She’s lost.” 

He faced Wallace defiantly. The assistant 
dropped a hand on his shoulder. 


THE DAUGHTER OF CHAI-HUNG 89 


“Don’t go any farther to-night. It’s too damn 
risky. You remember what happened to young 
Allison—” 

Brabazon felt for his pipe and strode back to 
where the girl still waited. 

“My watchman will see you home/’ he said. 

Her face fell. Her hands stole to his sleeves. 
The look jshe bestowed on him stirred the smolder¬ 
ing fires within. Trembling with an emotion that 
was utterly beyond his power to control, he pressed 
her fingers to his lips. In all this monotonous ex¬ 
istence of which he was fast growing tired, Suey- 
Koo was the brightest thing he had encountered. 

“You will come and see me?” she whispered 
presently. 

“Where can I find you? and when?” 

When Brabazon again joined Wallace the latter 
noticed that the manager’s cheeks were flushed, 
and until they parted at the spot where two paths 
met neither spoke a word. 


CHAPTER IX 


TRAPPED 

T HE residence of Chai-Hung was sur¬ 
rounded by a high palisade. There 
were three gates set close together, a 
large pretentious portal with narrower 
entrances on either side. The tall Chinaman in 
black who leaned against this screen was rolling a 
cigarette with practised skill, using tobacco which 
he fished from the inner recesses of a rubber pouch. 
He clipped off the stray ends with a pair of folding 
scissors, shielded the match with his hands, then 
reached up, and swung himself up to the other side, 
dropping upon the soft earth within a bare twenty 
feet of a bamboo joss-house with an open front. 
There were tiled steps leading up to a long altar 
illuminated with paper lanterns, and on the altar 
itself rested two bronze urns in which charcoal 
was burning. 

A girl came suddenly down the path, a slim, 
youthful figure in light blue, bordered with bands 
of black, and, entering the shrine, fell prostrate be¬ 
fore the altar. 

The man who had scaled the wall extinguished 

90 


TRAPPED 


91 


his cigarette and crept into a clump of bushes, 
where he lay prone. For a space of many minutes 
Suey-Koo, the daughter of Chai-Hung, bowed her 
head before the bronze vases. Presently she came 
slowly to her feet, at the same time drawing a nar¬ 
row black cylinder from her voluminous sleeve. 
The head of the watcher in the bushes jerked up¬ 
ward, and the Chinaman’s eye fell upon a naked 
blade, flashing even in the diffused light of the 
little joss-house, a knife that the harmless-looking 
cylinder had concealed. 

A whistle came from the darkness outside the 
palisade, and Suey-Koo slipped the dagger out of 
sight. She passed the bush so closely that a faint 
whiff of alluring perfume wafted to the nostrils 
of the intruder. One of the smaller gates swung 
open, and an Englishman with a broad, handsome 
face slipped through. He took the tiny hands of 
the Chinese girl and bent over them, then saluted 
her, in the manner of the Westerners, full on the 
lips. 

From his hiding-place, the man in black heard 
the soft, cooing laughter of the girl and the deep, 
easy tones of the Englishman, as he spoke to her 
in halting Malay. The moon stole between the 
palm-trees, as they walked together toward the 
screen of oiled paper and woven cane that served 
to keep the evil spirits from the house of Chai- 
Hung, and then, as they paused in the center of the 


92 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


flower-bordered path, a thing happened that per¬ 
plexed the unseen onlooker strangely. The man in 
white duck slipped both arms round the girl, draw 1 
ing her to him; a truant ray of silver light fell 
across her flushed cheeks as through lids half 
closed she looked up into her lover’s face. Sud¬ 
denly she pushed him violently from her, her slim 
right hand groping in the depths of her sleeve. 
With a queer half-cry, half-sob, she disengaged the 
knife that nestled in its glossy sheath—and threw it 
with all the strength she could command into the 
undergrowth. A moment later she lay weeping in 
the Englishman’s arms. By a strange freak of 
chance, the weapon struck a branch and dropped 
within a yard or two from where the Chinaman 
lay. 

With a weird twisted smile the man stretched 
out a long, lean arm and secured it. He looked 
up to see that a hidden panel in the screen had 
been drawn aside, revealing the habitually benev¬ 
olent face of the notorious Chai-Hung, hideously 
distorted until it resembled that of a ghastly idol. 
The panel closed; the lovers moved on toward the 
building; and the mysterious interloper rose noise¬ 
lessly and crept after them, picking his way as 
one accustomed to moving in dark places. 

Overhead the Eastern sky was flecked with 
countless stars, and a placid moon, almost at its 
full, bathed the spice-laden garden with silver 


TRAPPED 


93 


light, casting gaunt shadows across the broad path. 
Up in the trees a slumbering bird cried sleepily, 
while, all around, the night air throbbed with a 
strange mingling of sounds like the whistling of 
the wind in telegraph wires. 

The Englishman and the girl disappeared be- 
yond the screen, and, as if at a given signal, the 
deep tones of a native gong rang out suddenly in 
the blackness. The Chinaman dropped instinc^ 
tively, flattening out until nothing was to be seen 
above the lank grass into which he had fallen, and 
the whole inclosure within the palisade burst sud¬ 
denly into life, pattering with the noise of bare 
feet. 

The Yellow Seven had called; and the legions 
of the great Chai-Hung converged on the trap into 
which the white man had fallen, eager for the sacri¬ 
fice! Shadowy forms, nude for the most part, 
swept on to the path and vanished beyond the 
building, and presently a piercing scream broke 
upon the troubled night. 

The Chinaman sprang erect and dived behind the 
screen. In his left hand he held an automatic pis¬ 
tol, but the weapon with which he silenced the sen¬ 
try at the door was the knife that he had first seen 
in the joss-house in the fair hand of Suey-Ivoo. 

To Brabazon, confident that the commissioner 
had driven the redoubtable Chai-Hung into the 


94 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


jungle, there was something delightfully intimate 
in this invitation to drink tea, in true Chinese 
fashion, sitting on severe, high-backed chairs be¬ 
fore a blackwood table, amid amazingly decorated 
screens, tall vases, and all the priceless treasures 
of the residence of a Chinese gentleman. Suey- 
Koo drew him gently to an inner room until he 
paused with undisguised curiosity before an im¬ 
mense bronze figure, poised on a dais, with an open 
mouth displaying whitened fangs, holes in the 
metal where eyes should have been, and tears of 
painted blood on the cheeks. Suddenly a scream 
of mortal terror from the girl at his side caused 
him to glance sharply round. He stared in hor¬ 
rified amazement into the evil eyes of the great 
Chai-Hung. His hands were folded over an enor¬ 
mous paunch; the corners of his mouth turned omi¬ 
nously down; and he nodded his head like one of 
those Chinese figures Brabazon had seen in tea- 
shops. Chai-Hung! not the placid, benevolent mer¬ 
chant he had thought him to be, but rather the 
bloated, blood-thirsty Celestial directly responsible 
for Allison’s assassination. 

“We meet again, Mr. Brabazon,” he said 
smoothly, “and, I can assure you, it is for the last 
time!” 

Instinctively, but without hope. Brabazon’s 
hand shot to his pocket. He had not thought to 
come armed to meet Suey-Koo. 


i 


TRAPPED 


95 


“Your daughter was just showing me round,” 
he replied, forcing a smile. It occurred to him a 
second later that it was rather an unusual hour 
of the night to call anywhere, and that, in any 
case, he had no right to be on terms of acquaint¬ 
ance with the daughter of a wealthy Chinaman. 

“Ah!” commented the other. “She has not 
shown you everything, because she does not know 
everything that there is to show. We are some¬ 
what different in our treatment of women, Mr. Bra- 
bazon. We keep them, in many respects, unin¬ 
formed. We do not allow them the freedom that 
Western races do; we do not permit them to meet 
casual strangers. During my enforced absence, 
discipline has relaxed. I came back, as quickly as 
possible, to remedy this. I find it is beyond my 
powers. I see that it is too late!” 

Brabazon placed his hands on his hips and 
jerked out his chin. 

“I ’m afraid I don’t quite follow you, Mr. Chai- 
Hung.” 

The girl had fallen to her knees, her head buried 
in her arms. 

“After I leave you here—together,” Chai-Hung 
continued in the same measured tones, tempered 
with a certain degree of harshness, “you will have 
a—limited time in which to reflect,” he backed sud¬ 
denly toward the open door. “Reflect on this, you 
foreign devil!” he hissed with added vehemence. 



96 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“I saw you when you came. I observed every¬ 
thing, everything that you have done since !” 

He remained for a second, framed in the door¬ 
way, and then the door closed with a peculiar me¬ 
tallic sound that suggested that it would not easily 
be opened again. Brabazon, mute with aston¬ 
ishment, saw that there were no windows! 

A faint moan from the direction of the floor 
caused him to stoop and lift the trembling girl to 
her feet. Tonight was the first time he had seen a 
Chinese girl cry; it had never occurred to him that 
they could! She smiled faintly up at him through 
her tears. 

“It is the end,” she whispered. 

Brabazon laughed aloud. 

“The end! What utter nonsense. It ’ll have to 
be a damned strong place to keep me in!” 

He made as if to try the door, and Suey-Koo 
screamed again. 

“Look at the idol!” she implored him, and Bra¬ 
bazon looked. 

The head of the effigy was lost in a faint green 
vapor that was pouring from its open mouth and 
hideous, sightless eyes, in gusty wreaths as if 
puffed out by hidden bellow T s. 

The girl crept up to him, encircling him with 
her slender arms. 

“It is better to die together—so, than to live 
for ever apart.” 


TRAPPED 


97 


He pressed his lips to her forehead, then thrust 
her from him gently and began examining the 
walls, like a caged beast seeking for a faulty bar. 
He came back to her presently, and together they 
leaned against the wall by the door, watching in 
silence as the vault above them became filled with 
a poisonous cloud of ever-approaching smoke. 

“There is just one chance, little Suey-Koo,” he 
murmured after a long silence, trying to buoy her 
hopes with something he had not dared to believe. 

She shook her head emphatically. 

“There is none/’ she declared. “My father is all- 
powerful here.” 

“There is just one,” he persisted obstinately. 
“There is ‘He Who Sees in the Dark’—the English¬ 
man who is your father’s shadow.” 

She nestled closer to him, her fingers stroking 
his cheeks caressingly. 

“He will not come,” she said. “I don’t think I 
want him to come. I would rather stop like this, 
for then I shall always have you. Out in the great 
world again, I should lose you for ever.” 

He took her by both shoulders and held her 
away from him, forcing her to look into his eyes. 

“Never on your life, Suey-Koo,” he cried. 

Almost at his side, the door flew open with 
surprising suddenness, revealing two struggling 
forms beyond. From a tall man in a suit of black 
the words rapped out like a command: 


98 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“Brabazon, get that girl out, quickly! No, you 
don’t, you yellow 'swine!” This to the ponderous 
Oriental who strove to wrench himself free from 
a grip that had fastened on him like a vice. 
“There’s a pistol in my left pocket. Can you get 
it? Keep them off for a couple of ticks—and 
I’m with you!” 

With a Herculean effort, Pennington sent Chai- 
Hung headlong into the chamber of death—and 
deliberately closed the door on him, the door that 
could only be opened from the outside. 

Brabazon, still keeping Suey-Koo behind him, 
shot the first man that swaggered suddenly into 
view. The half-dozen who followed tripped over 
his body, and Pennington knocked out the light. 

Once more beyond the palisade, the din of the 
conflict still in their ears, Pennington turned to 
his friend. 

“You don’t mean to tell me you ’ve brought the 
girl?” he demanded, grinning broadly. 

“You bet I have,” retorted Brabazon. “What’s 
more, I’m going to keep her!” 

Chinese Pennington looked from Brabazon to 
Suey-Koo and from Suey-Koo to the stars. 

“There’s a boat leaves for Singapore to¬ 
morrow,” he said slowly. “It’s a bit healthier 
over there than here, and I ’ll give you a chit to 
a feller I know who’s starting oil!” 


CHAPTER X 


MONICA DISCUSSES MATRIMONY 

P ENNINGTON thrust his head in at the 
doorway of Hewitt’s office and blinked 
amiably toward where the commissioner 
sat at his desk, apparently immersed in 
thought, but, in reality, watching the antics of a 
Siamese kitten that his sister was tantalizing with 
a champagne-cork suspended from a string. 

“Well,” demanded the intruder. “How’s 
things?” 

Hewitt started guiltily, and Monica, grasping 
the folds of her kimono with one hand and the kit¬ 
ten with the other, dropped into the chair she had 
just vacated. 

“Morning, Pennington,” said the commissioner. 
“Anything fresji?” 

The man ynt h the peculiar eyes came in lan¬ 
guidly. He paused midway between Hewitt and 
his sister and leaned easily against a side-table 
piled with papers. 

“Mrs. Viney’s the freshest thing I’ve seen this 
morning,” he admitted. 

“Don’t be an imbecile!” recommended Monica, 

99 


y > > 


100 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


flushing. She held the animal up for inspection^ 
“Is n’t he sweet? Mr., Dawson sent him down 
from Ketatan.” 

“What are you going to call it?” 

Monica’s forehead wrinkled prettily. 

“Peter!” she declared with sudden emphasis. 

“That’s my name.” 

The commissioner swung round in his chair and 
smiled. 

“If you can induce Monica to clear out on the 
veranda you ’ll be rendering me a real service. 
I’ve something more important to do than finding 
suitable names for an animal that has n’t even a 
tail to call its own. I’ve already protested against 
‘Peter,’ but she argues that the natives insist that 
you can see in the dark, and that everybody knows 
a cat can.” 

“I see,” murmured Pennington. “I suppose, 
under the circumstances, I ought to feel highly 
complimented.” 

“I hope you won’t mind,” said Monica anxiously, 
twisting the string from which the cork was sus¬ 
pended round and round her finger. 

“Not in the least.” 

“Then, that’s settled.” 

She rose suddenly and made for the door, the 
light of triumph in her eyes. On the threshold 
she stopped and glanced back over her shoulder. 

“Are you going to be frightfully busy, Mr. 


MONICA DISCUSSES MATRIMONY 101 


Pennington ?” she asked. “Because I’ve thou¬ 
sands of things to talk to you about when Jack ’s 
finished with you.” 

Pennington grinned. 

“If you ’re meditating inducing me to impart 
any more state secrets—” he began. 

“I’m not. For one thing, I want to discuss 
Peter’s future. After all, you ’re his godfather, 
you know!” 

The door swung to on a vision of Western loveli¬ 
ness, in a kimono of blue with a flower-garden of 
silver blossoms, against the radiant background 
of an Eastern morning. But Pennington, gazing 
after her, lost everything but a halo of dancing 
curls, the delicious whiteness of her skin, and the 
crimson of her lips as they smiled at him. 

He turned presently and saw her brother regard¬ 
ing him curiously. 

“I suppose you ’re wondering why I’m still 
hanging around here in Borneo, instead of push¬ 
ing off back to Singapore?” 

Hewitt nodded his head slowly. 

“I imagine you want to marry Monica?” he sug¬ 
gested bluntly. 

“And supposing I do?” 

There was something in the ring of his voice 
that suggested he feared opposition on the part 
of the commissioner of police himself; but Hewitt 
shot from his chair as if impelled by a hidden 


102 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


spring and dropped both hands on the younger 
man’s shoulders. 

“Pennington, old son,” he declared, “there’s 
nothing on this earth that I’d like better. Good 
Lord, man! I’m not blind! I’ve been expect¬ 
ing this for ages.” 

“Thanks,” said the other huskily. He fidgeted 
a moment with a button of his drill tunic. “What 
are my chances, d ’you think?” 

The commissioner shifted his hands and thrust 
them into his pockets. 

“To tell you the honest truth, I have n’t in¬ 
quired. If you ask me my opinion, I should say 
you’ve as much likelihood of being successful as 
any man on the island. Why don’t you ask her 
—now?” 

Pennington favored him with a crooked smile. 

“I’ve sworn to wait until I’ve run Chai-Hung 
to earth.” 

Hewitt stood, his legs set wide apart, stroking 
his smooth black hair. Two deep furrows played 
at the spot where his eyebrows almost met. 

“Well,” he demanded, “what more do you 
want? You accomplished what you set out to 
do. You caught Chai-Hung in his own trap.” 

“I want proof.” 

The commissioner started. 

“Proof—of what?” 

Pennington dropped wearily into a chair. 


MONICA DISCUSSES MATRIMONY 103 


“I ’m not satisfied/’ he told him. “My contract 
was to get the blighter dead or alive. I did 
neither. I could n’t. I had a horde of his ruf¬ 
fians at my heels and young Brabazon to get out 
of the scrape into which he’d tumbled. Brabazon 
took my pistol and kept ’em off, while I threw 
Chai-Hung into the death-chamber. It was full 
of poisonous fumes, I ’ll admit, and I doubt if a 
fly could have lived in it; but—” he shook his 
head sadly— “I’d have given everything I pos¬ 
sessed to see that fat, villainous face composed 
for its last sleep.” 

“You ignore the importance of circumstantial 
evidence,” said Hewitt, waggling an admonishing 
finger. “That was a month ago. There has n’t 
been a single outrage since, and, what is far more 
significant, every Chinaman on the island went 
into mourning. That’s good enough for me, and 
it ought to be good enough for you.” 

“Ah!” commented Chinese Pennington, still un¬ 
convinced. “Have you any idea where they buried 
him?” 

The commissioner shook his head. 

“Have you?” 

“No. That’s the devil of it. I’ve been wan¬ 
dering from place to place trying to find out. 
Elusive in life, it appears that our Celestial friend 
is equally elusive in death! Every Chinaman you 
meet insists he’s dead, and yet none can tell you 


104 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


where his body lies. Chai-Hung was the embodi¬ 
ment of Chinese cunning, a master of intrigue, the 
possessor of a fertile brain that delighted in achiev¬ 
ing the unexpected. Either the secret of his 
burying-place has been miraculuously kept, or else 
we ’re the victims of the most gigantic hoax that 
has ever been perpetuated. Don’t you see my 
point?” 

Hewitt sat back in his chair and looked at the 
ceiling. 

“It’s deuced odd,” he admitted. 

“Look at it another way,” pursued Pennington, 
warming up to his subject. “Chai-Hung was 
something in the nature of a celebrity. He had an 
immense following. His word was law. Does n’t 
it seem more reasonable to you that his name 
should be handed down to Chinese posterity as 
that of a martyr? Would n’t you think they’d 
stick up a suitable monument over his last resting- 
place and organize a sort of annual pilgrimage to 
his shrine, instead of keeping the whole affair a 
dead secret?” 

The commissioner brought both hands suddenly 
to the arms of his chair and crossed his legs. 

“I don't quite know what to think,” he said 
slowly. “I’ve a deuce of a pile of work to get 
through, and most of it deals with people who are 
very much alive. Frankly, I’d tucked everything 
connected with the late Chai-Hung into a con- 


MONICA DISCUSSES MATRIMONY 105 


yenient coyer—and shelved it for ever more. I 
gathered from your report that the arch-bandit had 
ceased to exist. I was inclined to agree with your 
suggestion that, at his death, the devotees of the 
Yellow Seven would fall away like so many spokes 
from a shattered hub. If Chai-Hung’s dead, as 
I honestly believe he is, there’s precious little left 
to worry about. On the other hand, if he managed 
somehow to get out of the death-trap he hi set 
for Brabazon, it ’s a damned serious proposition.” 
He rose to his feet and began pacing the room 
nervously, his thin hands clasped behind his back. 
“The responsibility of* my position here is get¬ 
ting on my nerves,” he complained presently. “I 
can’t help realizing that the safety of every white 
man, woman, and child depends on the accuracy 
of my deductions with regard to these gang mur¬ 
ders.” 

“In which case,” put in Pennington quietly, 
“would n’t it be better to make sure?” 

Hewitt swung round on his heel. 

“How?” he demanded. 

“Get into touch with his agent, Lien-Yin. Tell 
him that at all costs he must furnish you with 
proof that Chai-Hung is dead.” 

“And if he refuses?” 

“In that case we must bring pressure to bear. 
His connection with Chai-Hung alone should be 
sufficient to justify your detaining him on suspi- 


106 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


cion of complicity in the recent assassinations. 
Hold that over his head, and see what sort of 
tune he pipes. In the mean time I ’ll continue 
my researches in other quarters.” 

He picked up his helmet and stuck it on the 
back of his head. 

The commissioner pressed the bell. 

“It’s a hell of a nuisance,” he announced some¬ 
what testily, “and I’m only going through with it 
for your sake—and Monica’s.” 

An orderly appeared at one doorway as Pen¬ 
nington passed through the other. He walked like 
a man who was conscious of a heavy weight being 
lifted from his mind, and his shoulders had an 
easy, care-free swing. 

“Don’t be so sure of that, old son,” he advised 
without looking back. 

He closed the door after him and strolled to 
where Mrs. Viney w T as sitting, the Siamese cat 
curled up fast asleep in her lap. A chair, a long 
cane affair with cushions in faded chintz covers, 
was drawn up so closely that its protruding arm 
almost touched hers. The very proximity of the 
thing thrilled him, and he accepted the invitation 
it offered, readily assuming an attitude eloquent 
of extreme comfort. 

The sun was already high in the heavens, and 
the heaviness of the tropic air was singularly con¬ 
ducive to languid restfulness and idle conversa- 



MONICA DISCUSSES MATRIMONY 107 


tion. Down in the dusty road that wound like a 
silver ribbon beneath a slope, palm-clad and sur¬ 
prisingly green, a native w T as urging a water- 
buffalo away from the coast-town.- Beyond the 
white clock-tower the listless waters of the little 
bay reflected the sun’s rays in every gentle, lap¬ 
ping wave that licked the sandy shore. From the 
market-square, shaded with trees, arose the distant 
mingling of guttural voices. The scattered dwell¬ 
ings of Europeans, the rows of Chinese shops, the 
pole-supported native hovels, stood clearly out¬ 
lined. To Pennington, reclining in the coolest 
corner of the house, the familiar landscape spoke 
of a peacefulness that was false and unreal. In¬ 
stinctively he sensed the significance of the calm, 
and dreaded the storm he felt must follow. The 
governor, Hewitt, all of them were confident that 
Chai-Hung was dead, confident because they be¬ 
lieved that he, Chinese Pennington, had given the 
island scourge his quietus. And the strangest 
thing of it all was that Pennington’s was the only 
mind in Borneo that was not easy in that quarter. 

“You wmnted to talk to me,” he ventured at 
length, more to change the unpleasant train of 
thought that obsessed him than to appear sociable. 

The girl regarded him thoughtfully, her chin 
resting on one hand. 

“Yes,” she admitted, “I want you to tell me 
what you think I ought to do. It seems so dread- 


108 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


ful not to have some definite object in life. I 
suppose it’s the climate or the sheer idleness, or 
perhaps a tiny bit of both. It’s been borne upon 
me rather forcibly lately that I’m no real use to 
anybody. Please don’t attempt to contradict me, 
because we shall only begin arguing, and it’s far 
too hot to do that. I’m supposed to be keeping 
house for my brother. That’s nonsense, of course. 
He looked after himself very well before I came 
out. The truth is, I’d nowhere else to go. I 
interfere with his work; he’s perpetually anxious 
for my safety, and he’s seriously exercised as to 
my future.” She picked up her fan and yawned 
behind it. “Things can’t go on like this for ever, 
can they?” 

“I suppose not,” agreed Pennington, inwardly 
cursing a luck that prevented him voicing what 
to him at that moment was an amazingly simple 
solution to the difficulty. 

“There’s only one thing for it,” continued 
Monica desperately. “I’ve got to get married!” 

Pennington crimsoned to the roots of his ruffled 
hair. 

“Married!” he echoed blankly. 

“I suppose you ’re going to tell me that I’ve 
had one husband already, and ought to be satis¬ 
fied with that, especially as there are so many 
superfluous women in the world who can’t get 
husbands at all!” 


MONICA DISCUSSES MATRIMONY 109 


“I was n’t.” 

“Swear to me that you did n’t even think of it.” 

“I swear,” said Pennington, recovering himself 
somewhat. “To tell you the unvarnished truth, 
I was wondering—” 

“Who the victim was to be! That’s just what I 
wanted to talk to you about. I ’Ve received a 
proposal of marriage!” 

She paused to observe the effect of her statement 
upon her hearer, but Pennington, his heart at 
zero, was apparently interested in something at 
the far end of the veranda, and she could only see 
the few unruly hairs that sprouted up at the back 
of his head, just where the irregular parting ended. 

“Verbal?” he inquired with exaggerated disin¬ 
terestedness. 

“No, in writing. Would you like to see it?” 

“Good Lord, no!” 

He turned toward her, his boyish face twisted 
into an expression of horrified amazement. 

“Oh, I would n’t have shown it to any ordinary 
man. You see, I don’t regard you as an ordinary 
being. You would n’t like me to, would you?” 

“What’s his name?” asked Pennington grimly. 

“It begins with a D,” she volunteered wickedly. 

“Dawson!” 

Scarcely aware of what he was doing, he had 
sprung to his feet and faced her, a light in his 
eyes that was almost savage. 


110 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“I did n’t say it was Dawson!” She looked 
down at her fingers. “Would you advise me to 
marry him?” she continued innocently. 

The veins over Pennington’s temples swelled) 
visibly. For a matter of seconds he stood there, 
impotent, inarticulate, his whole being weighed 
down with a sense of utter loss. He was momen¬ 
tarily mad with the whole universe, with Dawson, 
with Hewitt who had called him to the cursed 
island, and madder still with himself and the in¬ 
sane vow he had made in the silence of a tropic 
night. And the flushed face that looked up at 
him from the chair seemed to mock at him. Then, 
as if a mist had rolled from his brain, words 
forced themselves to his lips, wild, ill chosen sen¬ 
tences, yet fraught with a meaning so poignant 
that they startled him. 

“Great heavens, Mrs. Viney! Why do you ask 
me that? Why not consult your brother, a woman 
friend, any one but me?” 

Thirty seconds later the brain-storm had passed, 
and he found himself on the threshold of his own 
room at the commissioner’s bungalow^. As he 
slammed the door after him, the only thing that 
came to offer consolation was the Siamese kitten. 
It had somehow crept in before him, and he almost 
trod on it before he was aware that it was there. 
He rescued it gently and placed it on the folded 
blanket at the foot of his bed. The anthem with 


MONICA DISCUSSES MATRIMONY 111 


which it thanked him was extraordinary pro¬ 
nounced for so diminutive a creature, and, while 
marveling at this phenomenon, he suddenly remem¬ 
bered that Monica had called it “Peter!” 


CHAPTER XI 


THE BRONZE JAR 

P ENNINGTON, it must be remembered, 
held a roving commission. The extraor¬ 
dinary accident of birth that had con¬ 
demned him to go through life with two 
diagonal slits for eyes had been mainly responsible 
for the somewhat unusual career he had selected. 
When occasion demanded, he assumed the guise of 
a half-caste trader, of a Chinese shopkeeper, a 
coolie, or even a mandarin. And in his jungle 
wanderings, the natives who had dubbed him He 
Who Sees in the Dark had endowed him also with 
sundry other powers, fearing him as they feared 
the avenging spirits of a vague mythology. Pen¬ 
nington was possessed of a dual personality, pre¬ 
serving with meticulous care the exact distinction 
between the idle, lackadaisical youth who lounged 
behind the drawn sun-blinds, and the fearless, in¬ 
trepid adventurer to whom the forest-paths were 
like an open book, who felt with unerring accuracy 
the pulse of the teeming multitudes among whom 
his work lay. 

As far as was humanly possible he worked alone, 

112 


THE BRONZE JAR 


113 


and the commissioner of police was never sur¬ 
prised when he disappeared for weeks at a time, 
nor bothered his head about this extraordinary 
youth until he turned up again. It was shortly 
after his interview with Chinese Pennington, how¬ 
ever, that certain incidents occurred that gave 
food for reflection. On visiting the shop of Lien- 
Yin, the agent of the notorious Chai-Ilung, he 
found it closed, and none of the neighboring trad¬ 
ers appeared able to supply him with the informa¬ 
tion he sought as to the whereabouts of Lien-Yin 
himself. This, combined with the intense heat of 
the day, was scarcely conducive to good humor. 
The one man who might have furnished him with 
a clue had vanished as completely as if the earth 
had swallowed him up, disappearing, strangely 
enough, very shortly after Pennington had sug¬ 
gested his arrest. 

Hewitt returned to the bungalow in search of 
Pennington, only to learn that he had gone out 
half an hour before, and had left no message. 

The commissioner swore softly to himself and 
sent the boy for Monica. It occurred to him that 
his sister might be of help. At any rate, she was 
probably the last person who had seen Pennington. 

The servant returned with a message that 
Monica was suffering from a severe headache and 
that he was not to delay lunch for her. 

Hewitt dropped into a chair, slung his helmet 


114 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


into a far corner, and ordered a long drink. 
While waiting for it, he gazed blankly at the 
wooden ceiling, trying to piece this jig-saw puzzle 
together. After his conversation in the office he 
found no difficulty in connecting his sister with 
Pennington’s disappearance. He knew his friend’s 
feelings with regard to Monica, and, as far as he 
was able to judge, he had very little doubt in his 
mind that these sentiments were reciprocated. It 
was quite within the bounds of possibility that 
there had been a slight quarrel and that Penning¬ 
ton had cleared out in a huff. But the time at 
which he gathered Lien-Yin had left Jesselton co¬ 
incided far too closely with his suggested arrest 
to please the commissioner. If Pennington had 
been there, he could have advised him as to the 
turn events had taken and have sent him after the 
absconding Oriental. As it was— 

The Chinese servant shuffled in and placed a 
small tray on the table before him. The commis¬ 
sioner reached out for the glass, looking down all 
the while at the man’s bare toes. 

“What did you buy at the shop of Lien-Yin this 
morning?” he demanded with sudden fierceness. 

The Chinaman started violently. 

“Nothing, tuan ” he stammered, evidently taken 
off his guard. 

Hewitt’s brow converged. 


THE BRONZE JAR 


115 


“What were you doing there—if you bought 
nothing?” 

The creature opened his mouth, but no sound 
came. He stood before the Englishman, twisting 
his dark fingers together, glancing from one object 
to another as if in search of inspiration. 

“The shop of Lien-Yin is closed,” he announced 
suddenly. 

The commissioner sprang to his feet. 

“I am going to arrest you, my friend,” he said 
grimly. 

The servant’s eyes dilated with terror, and he 
shrank back against the wall, both hands out¬ 
stretched in front of him. 

“But why, tuan?” 

“Because I have seen a certain man who was in 
Lien-Yin’s shop when you went.” He paused to 
observe the effect of this feat of imagination. 
“He heard you warn Lien-Yin that my men were 
coming to take him.” 

The features of the swarthy face hardened as 
the Chinaman’s eyes fell upon the figure of an 
orderly who lurked inquiringly on the threshold. 

“It is a lie, tuan” the servant protested sullenly, 
“because there was nobody in the shop when I 
went.” 

Hewitt turned abruptly to conceal the smile that 
played at the corners of his mouth. 



116 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“Take him away,” he commanded, “and don’t 
let him out of your sight.” 

He picked up his helmet presently and went 
down the slope toward the rest-house, lunch at 
home being obviously out of the question. 

It was on the evening of the fourth day after 
Pennington’s departure that the new boy , engaged 
in place of the one who was under arrest, came 
in with the announcement that a deputation was 
waiting in the garden. 

The commissioner and Mrs. Viney were at din¬ 
ner. Hewitt, who was in the throes of dissecting 
a singularly tough chicken, looked up. 

“Damn!” he ejaculated. “Who are they?” 

The boy shook his head. 

“There are six of them, tuan y and they have 
come a long distance.” 

The commissioner shrugged his shoulders, 
screwed his serviette up into a ball, and banged it 
on to the table. 

“I leave it to you, Monica,” he said helplessly. 
“Dare say you ’ll make a better job of it. Con¬ 
founded nuisance, these deputations. Sha’n’t be 
a minute.” 

He vanished through the open doorway. 

The night w r as unusually dark, and a cool breeze 
met him as he reached the open veranda. A 
broad rectangle of light, coming from the house, 


THE BRONZE JAR 


117 


fell upon the soft earth at the foot of the steps, 
and, just beyond it, he saw the forms of six men, 
their white garments contrasting weirdly with the 
intense blackness without. A short, uniformed, 
figure, in a round hat and bare feet, came smartly 
to attention as he approached. 

“Well, w r hat is it?” inquired Hewitt, hooking 
forward a chair and sitting down on it with an 
air of resignation. 

Before the native non-commissioned officer could 
reply, a tall Chinaman pushed to the top of the 
steps and stood before the commissioner. 

“Great tuan ” he began, speaking rapidly in Ma¬ 
lay, “I am Lien-Yin, the agent of the great Chai- 
Hung—who is dead.” 

Hewitt, who had been idly tapping a cigarette 
on his thumb, looked up sharply. 

“Go on,” he commanded. “Presently I shall 
have something to say to you, Lien-Yin.” 

“Chai-Hung is dead,” pursued the other, unper¬ 
turbed. 

“So I believe,” put in the Englishman coldly. 
He was gazing beyond the spokeman of the party 
toward a dimly outlined case suspended from two 
poles, the extremities of which rested on the shoul¬ 
ders of four men. “How exactly did this Chai- 
Hung die?” 

“He was poisoned, tuan. I cannot tell you the 
manner of his death, because I was not there. 


118 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


You will understand that I was the agent of Chai- 
Hung, paid to do his bidding. It is to further 
carry out his wishes that I have come to you to¬ 
night. There is a boat leaving for Singapore to¬ 
morrow, and it is desired that the remains of my 
late master should be conveyed in it to the tomb 
of his ancestors.” 

The commissioner gasped. 

“The remains of Chai-Hung?” he echoed incredu¬ 
lously, his eye still on the box. 

“Yah, tuan 

Hewitt lit the cigarette and blew out a wreath 
of smoke. 

“Where are they?” 

“There, tuan” He pointed a long finger-nail 
toward the garden, indicating the case Hewitt had 
already seen, a thing no bigger than a hat-box, 
swathed in colored native matting secured with 
bands of twisted rattan. 

The commissioner drummed on the woodwork 
of the table with the tips of his fingers. In a 
land of constant surprises he had grown accus¬ 
tomed to be prepared for anything; but he found 
it difficult to reconcile the enormous figure of the 
Chinese bandit when alive with the ridiculous box 
that was supposed to contain all that was left of 
him when dead! Apart from this discrepancy, he 
was not blind to the motive that had actuated 


THE BRONZE JAR 


119 


Lien-Yen. If he had fled the coast-town because 
he feared arrest, it was equally certain that he 
was aware of the grounds upon which the arrest 
was to be made. His livelihood depended upon his 
business, and he could only save his business by 
keeping in good standing wuth the commissioner 
of police. Gradually a faint glimmer of daylight 
forced itself into Hewitt’s brain. Blessed with the 
keen instinct of self-preservation, the Oriental 
had deliberately desecrated the tomb of the arch¬ 
bandit in order to bring about his own salvation. 
A faint smile spread over Hewitt’s features, and 
he chuckled inwardly. Chinese Pennington had 
failed miserably in his attempt to locate the 
burial-place of Chai-Hung, and yet here was the 
proof of what he sought, brought to his very door. 

“How do you mean, thereV 3 he demanded pres¬ 
ently. “What does that case contain?” 

“It contains a bronze jar,” said Lien-Yin calmly, 
“and in the jar are the ashes of Chai-Hung.” 

Hewitt sprang to his feet and began pacing the 
veranda, his hands clasped behind his back. 

“What nonsense is this?” he jerked out over 
his shoulder. “Since when have you commenced 
burning your dead?” 

For the first time Lien-Yin smiled. His evil, 
pock-marked face puckered up into innumerable 
wrinkles, and he groped in the depths of a volumi- 


120 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


nous sleeve. He produced a yellow document, 
wound on a rod of blackwood with tassels of red 
silk at either end. 

“These are the last wishes of the great Chai- 
Hung,” he said. 

“State them briefly,” commanded Hewitt, mind¬ 
ful of his interrupted meal. 

Lien-Yin began in a singsong voice: 

“That, because I have lived in both the West and 
in the East and have seen customs that are bad and 
some that are good, I would wish my body to be dis¬ 
posed of in a manner that I believe to be good. That, 
in the event of my death in any place outside China, 
my body shall be burnt and my ashes placed in an urn 
made by my own people and suitably inscribed, and 
shall be transported with as little delay as possible to 
the home of my ancestors. . . .” 

“I see,” broke in the commissioner, taking the 
scroll from his hand. “You will come to me in 
the morning, Lien-Yin, for my decision. In the 
mean time, both this and the package must remain 
here. Do you understand?” 

The Chinaman appeared to hesitate. 

“They are the ashes of the dead,” he reminded 
the commissioner. 

“Precisely,” agreed Hewitt. “But you forget, 
Mr. Lien-Yin, that I still hold a warrant for the 
arrest of Chai-Hung—alive or dead!” 


CHAPTER XII 


ASHES OF THE DEPARTED 



E stood the thing on the top of the safe 
in his office. 

It was a handsome affair, fully 
eighteen inches in height, and particu¬ 
larly heavy. The top was closed down and sealed 
in some mysterious way, and four gold nobs pro¬ 
jected from a narrow band at the neck. The outer 
surface was covered with gilt .characters, appar¬ 
ently painted on. 

Hewitt had long ago given up collecting curios, 
and yet this great bronze jar fascinated him a 
good deal more than he would have cared to admit. 
As he surveyed it curiously leaning back in his 
chair, a half-smoked cigar between his teeth, it 
suddenly flashed across his mind that a great deal 
depended on its possession. If, indeed, the ashes 
of the great Chai-Hung reposed within, his own 
troubles w r ere at an end, Pennington was free to 
return to Singapore, and the whole of the scattered 
white community of the island was at liberty to 

retire tranquilly to rest. Moreover, it seemed that 

121 



122 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


within the funeral-urn of Chai-Hung lay the key 
to Monica’s happiness. 

He rose presently ancl^ lifting the jar from its 
perch, turned it round and round in his hands. 
And the closer he examined it the more complex 
the whole affair seemed. The thing was a master¬ 
piece of oriental craftsmanship, and the lettering 
that he had believed to have been painted on the 
bronze surface was inlaid, a process that must 
have taken years of patient toil to accomplish. 
And yet Chai-Hung had only been dead, for a mat¬ 
ter of days! He found himself wondering what 
the inscription implied and wishing that Chinese 
Pennington, who could speedily have enlightened 
him, had chosen any other time than this to be 
away. For some reason or other, he began to feel 
dissatisfied with the way in which the trophy had 
come into his possession. It was a perfectly nat¬ 
ural sequence of events, after all, and perhaps it 
was that which worried him most. He missed the 
spice of cunning that seasoned all Oriental trans¬ 
actions. Lien-Yin, in his capacity as Chai-Hung’s 
agent, would very naturally be intrusted with the 
transport of his late master’s remains back to his 
native country. Actuated by a desire to reestablish 
himself in the commissioner’s favor, it was obvi¬ 
ously a far better move on his part to display the 
actual package which contained the ashes of the 
leader of the Yellow Seven and to ask permission 


ASHES OF THE DEPARTED 


123 


to remove it from the island, rather than endeavor 
to smuggle it out disguised as an ordinary article 
of merchandise. 

Hewitt flicked the ash from his cigar. Turning 
abruptly, he saw Monica standing in the door¬ 
way. She was wearing the same kimono as when 
Pennington had surprised them in the office, and 
the Siamese kitten was tucked snugly under one 
arm. It seemed to the commissioner that she was 
unusually pale, and there were dark lines under 
her eyes that he had not noticed before. 

He placed the jar carefully on a corner of the 
desk. 

“I’m sorry, Jack/’ she said. “I did n’t want to 
disturb you, but the sheer loneliness of the place 
is getting on my nerves. I just had to come in.” 
She slipped into the chair he had pushed forward, 
and the kitten, freeing itself with an effort, began 
chasing a giant cockroach across the floor. 

“You ’ve got a touch of fever, old thing,” sug¬ 
gested Hewitt sympathetically. “Better take a 
stiff dose of quinine and turn in.” 

She smiled faintly. 

“I don’t think it’s fever. It’s this awful un¬ 
certainty. I ’in worried about—Mr. Pennington. 
He’s been on the island too long. The natives 
must be getting to know him. I have n’t slept for 
nights. I’ve been picturing him wandering 
through the jungle on this wild-goose chase for 


124 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


that creature’s tomb, with the followers of Chai- 
Hung on his track.” 

The commissioner perched himself on the table. 

“He ’ll come back all right,” he declared, aware 
all the time of a certain unaccountable huskiness 
in his throat. “Pennington always does.” 

Her gaze traveled to the bronze jar. 

“Is that the thing?” she demanded dully. 

Hewitt nodded. 

She left her chair and crept forward, half fear¬ 
fully, her hands outstretched in front of her. 
Presently she stood before the jar, looking down 
at it wistfully. 

“And to think—that everything depends on 
that. Everything, at least, that matters!” 

The commissioner jerked up his head and stared 
hard at the wall in front of him. He did not want 
to discover how Monica knew, but the very fact 
that she did know startled him. In the silence 
that followed he caught the measured tread of the 
sentry outside, the insistent hum of nocturnal 
insects, the pattering of the absurd kitten across 
the boards. 

On a tray by the book-shelf there reposed a de¬ 
canter and glasses. He went over to it and 
poured out a stiff tot. 

She took it unquestioningly, making a wry face 
as the neat spirit burned her throat. 

“So—Pennington does matter?” he said quietly. 


ASHES OF THE DEPAETED 


125 


The warm blood mounted to her cheeks. 

“Of course.” 

“I’m glad of that.” 

He was placing the glass back on the tray when 
he realized that his sister had followed him across 
the room. 

“Must we keep that wretched jar here? Can’t 
you just look in—to make sure—and send it back 
to them again?” 

He shook his head and laughed to dispel a cer¬ 
tain uncomfortable inward feeling that Monica’s 
present mood inspired. 

“That’s the devil of it,” he told her. “I can’t 
find out how it works.” 

She surveyed him for some moments, her head 
on one side. 

“Why don’t you send for a blacksmith or some¬ 
body, and force it open?” 

“I should scarcely like to do that. You see, it 
wouldn’t be policy to provoke any further un¬ 
pleasantness by deliberately committing sacrilege. 
Besides, it’s an uncommonly fine urn.” He looked 
at his w T ateh. “Time we got to bed, old thing. 
Lien-Yin’s coming round in the morning, and 
then we shall know all about it.” 

She clutched at his sleeve. 

“Jack, I can’t sleep here with that thing in the 
house. I’ve been feeling perfectly horrible ever 
since they brought it here. You ’ll call it nerves. 


126 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


I know, but I Ve seen things at the window. . . 

“What sort of things?” 

“I can’t quite explain. Just vague, shadowy 
objects. That was what made me come to you. 
I could have sworn I heard them breathing, and 
once, for a fraction of a second, two hands—like 
claws—rested on the sill. I should have gone mad 
if I had stayed.” 

Despite himself, the commissioner glanced ap¬ 
prehensively at the aperture through which the 
cool night air filtered. His keen gaze fell upon 
nothing but the rectangular patch of blackness he 
had expected to see. He walked deliberately to it 
and tossed the end of his cigar into the garden. 

“There is nothing there, you see,” he declared 
triumphantly. “I ’ll tell you what it is, Monica. 
You’re worrying too much about young Penning¬ 
ton, and you want a holiday. If you take my ad¬ 
vice you ’ll get married as soon as he comes back 
—and make him take you for a long sea-trip.” 

“Are n’t you looking rather far ahead?” said 
Monica demurely. “You forget he has n’t asked 
me yet!” 

The commissioner tapped the bronze jar with his 
finger-nail. 

“No, but he will as soon as I show him that. 
He was only waiting for proof that our enemy 
was dead.’ 

She came slowly back toward the urn. 


ASHES OF THE DEPARTED 


127 


“Proof,” she echoed in a voice so low that it 
was scarcely audible. “I wonder if this clumsy 
thing proves anything. For all we know—it may 
be empty.” 

“In which case,” smiled her brother, “there’s 
nothing on earth to prevent us going to bed.” 

But Monica was not listening. She was passing 
her fingers over the metal surface, frowning deeply 
as she did so. 

“I fancy that band has something to do with it 
—the band with the four little gold studs. May 
I try?” 

“You can do what you like, as far as I’m con¬ 
cerned,” returned her brother a trifle testily. 

She held her thumb poised over the nearest of 
the four gold nobs. It hovered for a second—a 
bare half-inch from the metal, and then—a form 
plunged wildly through the open window, landed 
in a crouching attitude on the bare boards, and, 
extending a lean arm, thrust her bodily into a 
corner. 

The bronze jar toppled awkwardly and rolled 
to the floor, where the Siamese kitten fell upon it 
in a frenzy of delight. Hewitt wrenched open the 
drawer in which his automatic lay, and Monica, 
her eyes wide open with terror, leaned helplessly 
against the wall, gazing into the scarred swart face 
of a Chinaman. The intruder’s greasy coat was 
torn and weather-stained, his feet were swathed in 


128 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


sandals of plaited straw, and his features wore 
an expression that she did not altogether under¬ 
stand. 

“Put them up,” said the commissioner coldly, 
and the Celestial, complying readily, bestowed on 
the astonished Hewitt a broad, boyish grin. 

“Don’t keep me like this for long,” came the 
familiar measured drawl of Pennington. “I ’ye 
got Lien-Yin trussed like a chicken outside, and 
I’m as hungry as a hunter!” 

The commissioner tossed his weapon back into 
the drawer in disgust. 

“Look here, old son,” he complained. “What the 
deuce do you mean by giving us all shocks like 
this?” 

The scarecrow, supporting himself on the arm of 
a chair, began rolling a cigarette. 

“I’m sorry if I hurt you, Mrs. Viney, only I 
did n’t like to see you fiddling about with that jar.” 

“I wanted to see what was inside.” 

She had recovered from the surprise his entry 
had given her. Her cheeks were flushed, and the 
folds of her kimono at her bosom rose and fell in 
tune with her quick breathing. 

Pennington ran his lower lip along the gummed 
edge of the paper and looked across at the com¬ 
missioner. 

“What did you suppose was inside?” He flung 
out the words like a challenge. 


ASHES OF THE DEPARTED 129 

“The ashes of our deeply lamented friend, Chai- 
Hung.” 

The younger man surveyed him pityingly. 

“The ashes of fiddlesticks! Chai-Hung, of all 
men, starting out on a new line—and arranging to 
be cremated! Does n’t sound very probable, does 
it? And yet I suppose even I might have been de¬ 
ceived by the delightfully plausible story—if they 
had n’t chosen me as one of the bearers!” 

“You?” 

“Why not!” 

“Good Lord!” 

Hewitt passed a clammy hand over his fore¬ 
head. 

Suddenly Monica uttered a little scream and 
pointed wildly to the floor. The Siamese kitten 
that had been playing with the bronze urn was ly¬ 
ing on its back, kicking spasmodically. The move¬ 
ments ceased abruptly, and before the commis¬ 
sioner could reach it the wretched creature was 
dead. More amazing still, the bronze jar lay open, 
its gaping mouth, dark and hollow like a tunnel, 
displaying no sign of the remains Hewitt had ex¬ 
pected to see. 

“Poisoned!” said Hewitt hoarsely. “Poor little 
devil!” 

“It was playing with the gold stud,” declared 
the girl sorrowfully. “Mr. Pennington, you don’t 
think—” 



130 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“I do! I knew it before I came in. I \e been 
hanging around here all the evening, trying to give 
Lien-Yin the slip and prevent you both making 
fools of yourselves.” 

He turned the jar with his foot, and all three re¬ 
coiled in horror. 

There fluttered out upon the floor a strip of 
pasteboard. By a freak of chance it fell face up¬ 
permost, showing seven black dots on a vivid yel¬ 
low ground. 

The commissioner was the first to move. 

“Look here, Pennington,” he shouted. “Where’s 
this fellow Lien-Yin?” 

The other nodded toward the door. 

“Your man ’s got him—out there. D’ you want 
to see him?” 

“I want to make certain he does n’t get away.” 

He fumbled in the drawer again and made for 
the veranda. 

Monica looked up at Pennington, and he saw 
that there were tears in her eyes. 

“I’m heartbroken about Peter,” she said softly. 
“But I’m awfully grateful to you for all you ’ve 
done.” 

“My dear Mrs. Viney!” protested Pennington. 

The commissioner thought it time to precipitate 
matters. 

“Tor the love of heaven, man, call her Monica ” 


ASHES OF THE DEPARTED 


131 


he bawled oyer his shoulder, and went out, slam¬ 
ming the door after him. 

The man with the Chinese eyes wrinkled his 
forehead. 

Monica had her back to him, the fingers of her 
hand resting on the table-edge. 

“What on earth ’s he driving at?” 

The girl shrugged her shoulders. 

“Is n’t that just like a brother!” 

“Is it? It was uncommonly decent of him, any¬ 
way.” He went a step toward her. “May I?” 

She stamped her foot. 

“Of course not.” 

“Not call you Monica!” 

Mrs. Viney came round slowly, the hand that 
held her handkerchief pressed to her lips. She 
glanced up at him and then dropped her gaze to the 
floor, leaving him with an uncomfortable feeling 
that she was laughing at him. 

“Oh, as far as that goes, you are at liberty to 
call me what you like. I suppose Mrs. Viney is a 
bit stiff,” she added hastily. 

“I’ve known you some months now and—” He 
plunged desperately. “Look here, Monica; polite 
parlor talk’s not exactly in my line; I’m a deal 
more comfortable in the backwoods, alone with the 
stars—and all that sort of thing. I’ve been think¬ 
ing of you ever since I met you, and I’m afraid I 


132 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


let Jack into the secret. I did n’t want to say 
anything to you until this Chai-Hung business was 
over and done with. I’d half promised myself 
that this would be my last case and that, if you 
cared sufficiently, I’d hand in my resignation. My 
people have a big business in Shanghai, you know, 
and I should have joined them ages ago, only this 
infernal life of wandering appealed to me.” 

Monica eyed him steadily. 

“Could you give it up?” 

He nodded. 

“I believe so. In fact, I ’m sure of it, if I had 
somebody besides myself to consider. Monica!” 

“Yes?” 

“I’m getting myself tied up into knots. I 
have n't the remotest idea how much I’ve said or 
how much more there’s left to say. Won’t you 
help me out?” 

“What do you want me to do?” 

“To tell me if there’s the least hope. Is 
there?” 

She did not answer. 

Taking his courage in both hands, he went right 
up to her. 

“Monica, you care for me a little, don’t you?” 

“I care for you quite a lot,” she returned, backing 
as if to get away from him. “But not—like that.” 

His face fell. 

“Then it’s no go?” 


ASHES OF THE DEPARTED 133 

She caught both of his hands and laughed up 
into his astonished face. 

“You poor boy! I did n’t mean that I could n’t 
love you. I do, Peter dearest; I love you with all 
my heart and soul. I hate it when you have to go 
away, and I’m scared to death until I find you 
here again.” 

She endeavored to prevent his arms from en¬ 
circling her. “But you can’t expect any self- 
respecting woman to adore you in those clothes! 
Besides you’ve all that horrible stuff smeared over 
your face!” 

“It won’t come off without special treatment.” 

“I don’t believe you.” 

“You’ve just got to.” 

He crushed h'er to him, imprinting kisses on her 
cheeks, her curls, and the unresisting lips that 
pouted at him. 

Presently he released her, and they sat side by 
side on the table, flushed and excited. 

“I wish this rotten business would fizzle out,” he 
said suddenly. “It rather takes the gilt off the 
gingerbread, does n’t it?” 

“I suppose you can’t leave it for somebody else?” 
He shook his head gloomily. 

“For the sake of my own self-respect I can’t.” 

“Not even for my sake?” 

“Not even for that. I can’t let Jack down, nor 
the dozens of others who are counting on me. But 


134 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


I ’ve something to work for now. Lord! I am 
happy! Half an hour back, I did n’t dare imagine 
I’d a ghost of a chance.” 

A knock came at the door, and, responding to 
Pennington’s summons, a grotesque figure appeared 
on the threshold. 

Monica, suppressing a cry, stared fixedly at a 
short, lithe figure with an eye and ear missing and 
a mouth that seemed to stretch from one side of 
his face to the other. 

“Great Tuan, it is I, Rabat-Pilai. I have come 
to tell you that Chai-Hung is not dead.” 

Pennington strolled to meet him. 

“I’m afraid I know that already,” he replied 
with a reassuring smile. “How did you learn this 
news, Rabat?” 

The man dived a hand beneath his rags and pro¬ 
duced therefrom a Japanese fan. He held the 
thing at arm’s length above his head. In the 
center of its silken surface, clearly and firmly de¬ 
signed, Pennington saw the familiar sign of the 
Yellow Seven. 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE FAN MYSTERY 

A MAN with iron-gray hair, who was wait¬ 
ing at a bare wooden table under the 
swinging oil-lamp, looked up slowly, 
and his eye fell upon the figure of a 
tall Chinaman, in a blue jacket with voluminous 
sleeves, that had come noiselessly to the toji of the 
short flight of steps that led to the veranda. The 
nocturnal intruder was as dark-skinned as a Dyak, 
with an ugly scar that ran the whole length of one 
cheek. Hyde, glaring inquiringly at him, classed 
him without difficulty as a member of one of those 
many tribes of fisher-folk created by a fusion of 
Oriental and Dusun blood, and marveled secretly 
at the cool insolence that prompted him to loll 
idly against a wooden post that supported the door¬ 
frame. 

He pushed back his chair and confronted the 
new-comer. 

“Well?” he demanded in fluent Malay. “What 
the devil d’ you want?” 

The scarecrow’s features puckered into a broad 
grin. 


135 


136 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“As a matter of honest fact, Hyde,” he drawled 
in surprisingly good English, “I’m in need of a 
good many things. I’m deuced hungry, for one; 
my throat’s a good deal drier than I like it to he; 
and I’d be grateful for a decent suit of whites if 
you happen to have one handy!” 

The planter stepped back a space or two and 
scratched his head. 

“What the— Who are you, anyway?” 

“Pennington,” said the other humbly. “Peter 
Pennington, commonly referred to on the island 
as Chinese Pennington, And if you don’t remem¬ 
ber traveling in the same stateroom with me from 
Colombo to Penang three years ago, you ought 
to go in for a pretty stiff course of memory¬ 
training.” 

“Good Lord!” He scrutinized the younger 
man’s features for some moments, thrusting for¬ 
ward his head in incredulous amazement. Pres¬ 
ently he extended a horny hand, and Pennington 
gripped it hard. 

“Sorry to drop in on you like this,” he mur¬ 
mured, glancing down at his somewhat tattered 
garments. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been waiting 
down in the trees for close on an hour. Your boy 
kept shuffling in and out, and I’ve got my own 
reasons for not being seen in this get-up.” He 
peered anxiously down the central passageway. “I 
imagine he’s turned in for the night?” 



THE FAN MYSTERY 


137 


“He won’t show np—unless I call for him. 
Come straight in through this door. I ’ll fix you 
up in a couple of minutes.” 

A quarter of an hour later both men sat facing 
one another. 

“There are a hundred and one questions on the 
tip of my tongue,” Hyde said presently, shifting 
a black cigar to the corner of his mouth, “and I 
can’t decide which one to fire at you first. What’s 
puzzling me most, I suppose, is the motive that’s 
brought you here.” 

Pennington looked back over his shoulder, then 
leaned over and whispered. 

“ Chai-Hung!” 

The planter almost jumped from his chair. 

“Chai-Hung!” he echoed hoarsely. “But, man 
alive, I had a chit from the commissioner ages ago 
saying that Chai-Hung was dead!” 

Pennington pressed the points of his long fingers 
together. 

“We all thought so, but that was before we 
quite realized the peculiar properties of the man 
with whom we had to deal. D’ you know I had him 
once—in these hands—and for a matter of days I 
thought I’d killed him. He let me think so, and 
put the yellow population into full mourning. 
And then a sort of subtle sense of humor—for, 
mind you, Chai-Hung has a sense of humor- 
prompted him to disillusion me. Now I’m engaged 



138 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


on a helpless game of hare and hounds. Just 
think of it, Hyde: I, who drove the bandit into the 
jungle, w T ould give every cent I possess to be able 
to get him out of it again! And the devil of it all 
is, Chai-Hung’s like an epidemic, and nobody 
knows in what form he ’s likely to break out.” 

The planter emptied his glass. 

“That’s all wonderfully interesting,” he said 
slowly, “but I still don’t see—” 

“Why I chose to invade your bungalow like a 
thief in the night, eh? That ’s precisely what I 
was coming to when I told you I was on a game of 
hare and hounds, a form of paper-chase that a 
school-boy might be beguiled into! Only the scent 
is n’t laid in bits of torn paper; it’s blazed—pos¬ 
itively blazed—in Japanese fans.” 

The older man jerked up his head. 

“Fans?” 

“Sounds idiotic, does n’t it? but it’s true 
enough, all the same. The trail led me here—and 
then stopped abruptly. I’ve slept in your coolie¬ 
lines, spent useless hours in fetid opium-dens, 
blundered into native villages—and out of them 
again—and I’m no nearer the solution of the 
mystery than I was before.” 

“What are they like, these fans?” 

“Just ordinary affairs, a flimsy frame and a 
handle of polished cane with some sort of light 
material stretched across—and a picture on it.” 




THE FAN MYSTERY 


139 


Hyde smiled. 

“Nothing very wonderful in that,” he grunted. 
“I’ve a dozen or so of ’em myself.” 

Pennington blinked and shifted his position in 
the chair. 

“I dare say you have. Everybody buys them; 
and that ’s precisely where the cunning of the 
scheme comes in. A man goes into a Chinese store 
and asks for fans. He gets the common or garden 
article of commerce, and goes away. But the par¬ 
ticular type of fan that’s brought me here is quite 
another story. I ’ll put it to you as plainly as I 
can. Chai-Hung ’& up against whites, particularly 
those who are in a position of influence. His 
knowledge of human nature is irrefutable. He 
knows most women are superstitious, and, in this 
instance, his energies are directed in hitting at us 
through our womenfolk. A woman wants a fan. 
The shopman displays his usual selection and then, 
awaiting an .opportunity when nobody else is look¬ 
ing, produces one of another sort, incased in a 
silk cover. This, it transpires, is not for sale. He 
hopes the lady will accept it as a gift, pure and 
simple. He pitches a plausible yarn about special 
occult powers that are supposed to be associated 
with it. All that is required is for the honorable 
lady to look at it intently every night. She must 
not show it to anybody, or even talk about it, for, 
in so doing, its properties are lost.” 


140 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“How d’ you know all this?” demanded the plan¬ 
ter, leaning over to reach the decanter. 

“I’m coming to that presently; I hope I’m not 
boring you?” 

The other made a movement with his hand. 

“On the contrary. Fire away, by all means. 

“Nine women out of ten are taken in. It’s per¬ 
fectly natural that they should be. They regard 
the gift as a subtle compliment, and the supernat¬ 
ural jargon appeals to them. In torrid zones the 
best of us tend to vegetate. We ’re waited on 
hand and foot, and most women find themselves 
at a loose end. They adhere scrupulously to the 
instructions, and only uncover the fan when they 
are alone and after everybody else has retired for 
the night.” 

Hyde rose suddenly and perched himself on the 
edge of the table at Pennington’s elbow. 

“Well?” he interjected impatiently, “and what do 
they see?” 

Pennington waved both hands helplessly into the 
air and let them fall again to the arms of his 
chair. 

“I don’t quite know. If I did, I should n’t be 
sitting here drinking your whisky and keeping 
you from your bed. I told you nine women out of 
ten would be gulled at the outset. By a sheer 
freak of chance, one of these fans got into the 
hands of the tenth! She brought it straight to 


THE FAN MYSTERY 


141 


me, for my advice. She ? d looked at it herself, 
out of idle curiosity, on the way, and by the time 
I had it in my hands the picture had practically 
faded out. I saw just a dim gray outline, and 
then, as it vanished altogether, a rather remark¬ 
able phenomenon took its place. It was in the 
broad light of day, you must remember, and there 
was nothing particularly ingenious in a photograph 
that had been intended to fade in the sunlight, but 
as I stared at the swiftly departing image I no¬ 
ticed a colored patch, the size of my forefinger, be¬ 
coming more vivid every second. The thing w T as 
so sudden that I almost dropped the fan in amaze¬ 
ment. Believe me or not, as you will, but the 
colored patch built itself up before my eyes into a 
yellow seven/’ 

A soft whistle escaped the planter. 

“But the woman! She saw the picture!” 

“It began to fade as soon as she withdrew the 
cover, so quickly, in fact, that all she was able to 
tell me was that, instead of the head of a Japanese 
girl or a grouping of figures that one usually sees, 
there was what appeared to be a view. So much 
for that! To be perfectly frank, I judged it to be 
one of our friend Chai-Hung’s innumerable ways 
of conveying the imformation that he was still 
very much alive. And then something else oc¬ 
curred which placed a far more serious interpreta¬ 
tion upon what I had innocently imagined to be per- 


142 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


fectlv trivial affair. You know Mallinson? His 
wife had joined him only a month before. It so 
happens they occupied single beds in the same 
room. He woke one morning, somewhere about 
three, to find Mrs Mallinson’s bed empty. It took 
him a couple of hours to get on her track. She 
was down by the sea shore, fully dressed and un¬ 
conscious, with Mallinson’s great hound, covered 
in blood, barking furiously. There were plenty of 
signs of the struggle the beast had put up; the 
grass was trampled in all directions; and there 
was evidence, too, of a boat having pushed off 
from the sandy stretch below. She was still 
clutching a Japanese fan, but, of course, there was 
nothing but the inevitable sign of Chai-Hung’s 
brotherhood on the flimsy material that covered 
the frame.” 

“What d’you make of it?” asked the planter, 
after a long silence. 

“Hypnotism!” He clasped both hands over his 
knee and looked before him into space. “I believe 
that each of these fans is specially prepared for the 
victim for whom it is intended. Each bears a cer¬ 
tain photograph, the picture of a place sufficiently 
clearly portrayed and sufficiently well known to 
the victim to insure there being no serious hitch. 
She is forced in some mysterious manner to go to 
that place, where Chai-Hung’s men are already in 
waiting.” His eyes blazed with a strange light. 


THE FAN MYSTERY 


143 


“It’s my own theory—and you ’ll probably think 
it mighty far-fetched—but, Hyde, old son, I know 
Chai-Hung, and you don’t!” 

“What d’ you w T ant to do?” 

“I mean to get hold of one of those fans—in the 
lamplight. I’m going to see one of those damned 
pictures!” 

“And then?” pursued the planter steadily. 

“And then I ought to be a good deal nearer to 
the lair of the arch-bandit than I ’ve been for many 
a long day. It’s a w T eary life, Hyde, is n’t it? I 
thought I should be through with this long ago. 
Another of your excellent whiskies, please—and 
then to bed.” He caught the older man’s arms 
impulsively. “Three years is a longish time,” he 
said, “and it’s good to meet old friends!” 



CHAPTER XIV 


ISLAND “N” 

F ROM the wooden veranda-rail Penning¬ 
ton watched the great sheets of white mist 
rolling from the paddy-lands at dawn. 
To the westward, beyond the rubber-trees, 
a cluster of palm-girt islets emerged colorless from 
a listless sea. Down in the coolie-lines, turbaned 
watchmen flitted like gaunt specters between long 
huts, and a thin wisp of black smoke hung in the 
air above the chimney of a cook-house. A chill 
current of air, blowing from nowhere in particular, 
fanned his forehead, and he glanced back over his 
shoulder to see Hyde, in faded pajamas, beaming 
cordially at him. 

“Tabi ” laughed the planter, employing the na¬ 
tive greeting. 

“Morning,” said Pennington. “I was just ad¬ 
miring your landscape. It is n’t often I find much 
to rave about in a country I thought I knew by 
heart. The amazing thing about this life, Hyde, 
is that one never finishes discovering new things.” 
“Such as—” 


144 


ISLAND “N” 


145 


“Such as those islands, for example. I never 
remember seeing them before.” 

The planter joined him. 

“Most people miss this little corner of mine,” 
he told him. “I suppose it’s because of that penin¬ 
sula that helps to form the bay. From the more 
civilized side, the beaten track turns abruptly in¬ 
land; and of course, the railway follows it. Per¬ 
haps that is because the surveyor-fellows who 
planned it sought the line of least expense, or it 
may be they lacked imagination.” 

“It ? s a gray world—before the sun is up,” mused 
the younger man, still looking out to sea. “What 
d’ you call that island?” 

“Which one?” 

“The larger of the three.” He indicated it 
with his finger. 

Hyde smiled. 

“Strictly speaking, it has no name; but, for 
want of something better to do, I’ve dubbed it 
Island N.” 

Pennington raised his brows. 

“Any particular reason?” 

“I could show it you, if I had the glasses handy. 
There were once three tall trees on a hillock, that 
stood out from all the rest. During a cyclone, 
one of them fell across the two others, and it’s 
stopped there ever since. It looks as much like an 
N as anything else. Hence the name.” 


146 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“Ever been there ?” 

“Can’t say that I have. I’ve always meant to, 
of course, but it rfever got further than that. I 
imagine if one lived next door to the Tower of Lon¬ 
don, one’d know about as much of its interior as I 
do of that particular island. There used to be a 
colony of natives. You can still see what remains 
of their houses—but they cleared out in a panic 
after the storm—and I’ve heard since that it’s 
locally supposed to be haunted. Anyhow, our 
black community avoids it like the plague.” 

Pennington drew himself erect and inhaled a 
deep breath. 

Little by little, the leaden landscape was build¬ 
ing up into patches of brilliant coloring, assuming 
the myriad varying hues that the fall of tropic 
darkness had blotted out. The limitless fields of 
growing rice emerged like an emerald carpet. The 
cocoa-palms threw out tinted, feathered fingers 
against a background of ever-deepening azure, and 
the ocean, taking its color from the vault above, 
added to it some of its own. A line of coolies in 
red loin-cloths wound, serpent-like, through the 
trees, and Island N smiled and woke. 

“I can see those trees,” jerked out Pennington 
suddenly, shading his eyes. “I ’ve a feeling in my 
bones I’d like to run over there one of these days.” 

“There’s nothing to stop you. Only you’d 
have to paddle yourself across, or swim it. I 


ISLAND “N” 147 

doubt very much if you ’d succeed in bribing any 
one in the locality to take you there.” 

The boy appeared suddenly with tea and green 
bananas, and the conversation turned upon other 
subjects. Presently it dropped altogether, and 
Pennington, stirring the fluid in his cup thought¬ 
fully, was somewhat surprised to see the figure of 
a girl on a short, sturdy pony wheel into view on 
the broad path that wound between the trees. She 
cantered up to the bungalow, dismounted, and 
slung the reins over a convenient post. She came 
up the steps, a trim, youthful figure, with a shock 
of dark curls, her cheeks flushed, her eyes spar¬ 
kling as they fell upon Hyde. 

“Morning, dad!” and then she saw Pennington. 

Both men rose to their feet. 

“This is my daughter,” said the planter by way 
of introduction. “Dora, I don’t think you’ve met 
Mr. Pennington.” 

The girl dropped into a cane chair. 

“I’ve been ever so far. I left Jack in the lines 
and rode through the native village right into the 
jungle. I love the dawn, don’t you, Mr. Pen¬ 
nington? Everything seems good and fresh and 
clean. Shall I shout for another cup?” 

“Dora married young Bateson, my second assist¬ 
ant,” explained the planter. “I expect you 
heard.” 

He shouted something in Malay, and the cook- 


148 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


boy, wlio had been sweeping in an inner room, ap¬ 
peared at a doorway. 

“Are you a planter?” The girl surveyed Pen¬ 
nington curiously. 

He shook his head. 

“I ’ve never planted anything in my life,” he 
said. “I suppose that ’s rather a horrible confes¬ 
sion to make in a place where most people do noth¬ 
ing else. As a matter of fact, I’m criminally 
overpaid by a much trusting Government to look 
after the interests of pretty women who go out 
riding, alone, before dawn.” 

Mrs. Bateson flushed. 

“Are you laughing at me, Mr. Pennington?” 

“On the contrary. I was never more serious 
in my life.” 

Pennington rolled a cigarette, and the girl, lying 
back in her chair, watched him in mute fascina¬ 
tion. She noticed that the practised fingers ap¬ 
peared to accomplish their task without apparent 
effort, and that the only time his eyes dropped to 
the weather-stained rubber pouch was when he 
clipped off stray ends with an absurd pair of pocket- 
scissors. He glanced up presently and passed her 
an open tin that stood on the table near his arm. 

The corners of Dora Bateson’s pretty mouth 
dropped. 

“Is this a sort of special concession, Mr. Penning- 


ISLAND “N” 149 

ton?” she demanded, bending forward toward the 
match he held out. 

“Not in the least,” he retorted, smiling. “I like 
a woman to smoke—if she cares for it.” 

“And yet you ’re old-fashioned enough to disap¬ 
prove of women riding alone?” 

Before Pennington could reply, the planter had 
hooked down his hat and was making for the steps. 

“I ’ll leave you two to settle this interesting 
dispute for yourselves,” he laughed. “I’m off to 
see that none of my scoundrels are shirking. 
You ’ll be here when I come back, of course? We 
can afford to have Mr. Chai-Hung keeping you on 
tenter-hooks a little longer, so that we can have 
you with us. One last word of warning, Penning¬ 
ton. Never let Dora draw you into an argument, 
if you can avoid it! If you can’t, steer clear of 
anything that smacks of feminine emancipation. 
The supposed frailty of the sex is rather a sore 
point with her. She’s accustomed to act on her 
own initiative, and she can’t concede the possi¬ 
bility of other women not being able to do the 
same.” 

He winked broadly and went down the path to 
where a watchman waited with his mount. 

He was out of sight beyond the leafy fringe 
of waving rubber when the girl spoke. 

“I fancy I’m beginning to understand. Is it 



150 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


because of this Chai-Hung that you did n’t want 
me to ride alone?” 

The other nodded. 

The boy, who had come in noiselessly and was 
in the act of clearing the breakfast things, dropped 
the tray upon the table from which he had just 
lifted it. 

Pennington sprang erect. 

“Why did you do that?” he inquired fiercely. 

The man spread out his hands. 

“It slipped, tuan” He stooped to recover 
several lumps of sugar that had fallen to the floor, 
and upon which a colony of voracious ants was 
already converging. 

“I see. We will have no more slips like that. 
Do you understand?” 

The Chinaman murmured something that Pen¬ 
nington did not catch, and shuffled out. 

“You must n’t mind Lai-Ho,” said Dora. “He’s 
not been with us very long, and he’s frightfully 
careless.” 

“It struck me as being a little peculiar,” re¬ 
turned Pennington, “that he should display his 
clumsiness at the actual moment when you men¬ 
tioned Chai-Hung.” 

The girl’s forehead wrinkled. 

“Are n’t you rather an uncomfortable sort of 
person to know? We ’ve never had the slightest 
suspicion of trouble up here before you came. Now 


ISLAND “N” 


151 


we shall all be looking under our beds and behind 
curtains hunting for Chinese bandits! I suppose 
Chai-Hung does actually exist? To be perfectly 
frank, we ’d come to the conclusion he was a myth 
—a romantic, imaginary bogy, invented by the 
commissioner of police to keep us all on the alert.” 

Pennington crossed the floor and leaned his 
back against the rail. 

“I ’m afraid I must disillusion you, Mrs. Bate¬ 
son. Chai-Hung, unfortunately, is very much in 
existence just at this moment. I can’t exactly ex¬ 
plain to you why your portion of this island should 
be so singularly immune from the attentions of his 
gang.” He extended a warning finger. “But I 
want you to understand that it is more by accident 
than design that he has left you alone. This state 
of security cannot last. You ’re living in a fool’s 
paradise, and one of these days somebody or 
other ’ll w T ake up with a nasty jar! I don’t want 
it to be you, Mrs. Bateson. That’s precisely why 
I’m up against those early morning excursions 
through the jungle.” 

Dora jammed on her sun-helmet and rose from 
the chair. 

“You must run across and meet my husband,” 
she said. “Do you really want me to cut these 
rides?” 

Pennington passed a finger between his tunic- 
collar and his neck. 


152 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“Ride within the estate boundaries for a month. 
I ’ll try not to make it more—and keep your 
eyes open.’” 

“What am I to look for?” inquired Dora inno¬ 
cently. 

“A Chinese play-card with a yellow face upon 
which seven black dots are printed. If ever you 
should hear of one of these, send to me at once. 
If there’s nobody to send, come yourself.” 

“Is that all?” 

He followed her to the top of the short flight. 

“Just one other thing. If a Chinaman should 
offer you a fan, accept it without comment. It 
will be in a silk case. On no account remove that 
case. Bring it to me as it is.” 

She held out a slim hand. 

“Good-by, Mr. Pennington. On second thoughts, 
I fancy I ’in glad you’ve come. It all sounds so 
frightfully thrilling. Only—” 

“Only what?” 

“You don’t explain very clearly why a fan should 
be offered to me!” 

“It’s merely a supposition on my part, based 
on two things. The first being that, unless my 
calculations are sadly at fault, our Oriental friend 
has chosen this territory for his next area of opera¬ 
tions.” 

The girl started. 

“And the second?” 


ISLAND “N” 


153 


Pennington smiled queerly. 

“There have already been two recipients of these 
fans in Borneo,” he said, “and both of them were 
singularly beautiful women!” 


CHAPTER XV 


DUPED 

I T was toward the end of the second week of 
Pennington’s stay at Hyde’s bungalow that 
he began to display signs of impatience. 
Despite his predictions, nothing unusual had 
come to disturb the habitual routine of the estate. 
Prolonged inactivity had never agreed with him. 
Moreover, he was beginning to be dimly aware that 
the reason for his visit had got abroad, and that 
Hyde’s assistants were secretly amused at his 
apparent helplessness. In desperation he cast 
around for some tangible clue that might serve to 
assist him in his search for Chai-Hung; and his 
eye fell upon Lai-Ho, the servant -who had dropped 
the tray. 

Lai-Ho was short of stature and uncommonly 
thickset. He wore a singlet of yellow gauze and 
a pair of khaki trousers that always appeared to 
be in imminent danger of coming down. His 
complexion was brown and pock-marked, and his 
broad face bore a perpetual expression of injured 
innocence. It was this and the fact that Lai-Ho 
aspired to speaking a little English that finally 

154 



DUPED 


155 


convinced Pennington that Hyde’s new cook -boy 
w r as a person whose movements were worthy of 
attention. 

There was a certain amount of sickness in Hyde’s 
coolie-lines, and for that reason Lai-Ho had been 
told off to attend to the wants of both the genial 
planter and his guest, an arrangement which, if 
it was not altogether agreeable to the Chinaman, 
gave Pennington ample opportunity of observing 
closely the man through whom he vaguely hoped 
to trace Chai-Hung. 

They were sitting one evening over their after- 
dinner cigars, when Hyde, who w T as groping for 
something in a trouser pocket, uttered a muffled 
exclamation and withdrew his hand. The thing 
that he held between finger and thumb fluttered 
to the cloth, and both men, springing to their feet, 
bent in speechless amazement over a Chinese play¬ 
ing-card. The black back of the thing lay upper¬ 
most, and Pennington turned it over with his 
nail. 

It was Hyde who broke the silence. 

“The Yellow Seven!” he muttered hoarsely. “I 
wonder—” 

Before he could complete the sentence, Penning¬ 
ton had wrenched open the door, sending Lai-Ho, 
who had been listening on the other side, pitching 
forward on his face. Something shot from the 
region of his waist and rolled to the planter’s feet. 


156 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


It was a knife with a long, thin blade and a handle 
of bnffalo*horn. 

Hyde stooped to pick it up, and Pennington, his 
hands resting lightly on his hips, surveyed the 
prostrate Oriental with interest. 

“Get up, my friend,” he advised him coldly. 
“There are many questions I would like to ask 
you.” He pointed to the card which still lay on 
the table. “Who gave you that yellow seven?” 

Lai-Ho scrambled to his feet and backed toward 
the doorway, his eyes blazing fury. Suddenly, as 
Pennington sought to intercept him, the entire ex¬ 
pression of the swarthy features changed, and the 
Englishman realized that Lai-Ho was looking be¬ 
yond him. At the same moment a cry from Hyde 
brought Pennington round on his heel in time to 
see a bamboo pole, propelled from without, shatter 
the lamp-glass and plunge the room into darkness. 

The faint light from the match the planter held 
shaded between his fingers was sufficient to assure 
them that Lai-Ho had disappeared. 

“What are you going to do?” demanded Hyde, 
striking two matches together and mounting a 
chair. 

Pennington had already reached the veranda- 
rail and was peering into the blackness of the 
tropic night.. 

“Follow, old son!” he shouted back over his 
shoulder. “Follow for all I’m worth!” 


DUPED 


157 


He vaulted lightly to the soft earth below, and 
the planter, relinquishing his attempt to relight 
the lamp, joined him. 

“Seen anything?” 

The other nodded. 

“There were two of ’em. They were making for 
the bottom of the slope. Are you coming?” 

“Most certainly. It’s ages since I had any 
excitement to speak of.” 

“I fancy I can promise you some,” returned 
Pennington grimly. “Come on.” 

On the open ground between the huts they en¬ 
countered a Sikh watchman who had just passed 
two men making for Bateson’s side of the planta¬ 
tion. He had noticed that they were breathless 
with running, and he thought one of them was the 
manager’s servant. 

Hyde shouted to him to keep an eye on the bunga¬ 
low until they returned, and hurried on to catch 
up w T ith Pennington, who was already a hundred 
yards ahead of him. 

The soft yellow light of a rising moon bathed 
the hillside, throwing weird shadows from the trees. 
Bullfrogs croaked noisily from the sago-swamp in 
the valley, and the guttural chattering of coolies 
greeted them from the gambling-den in Bateson’s 
lines. 

Presently they were in the open paddy-lands, 
the incessant droning of insects in their ears, and 


I 


158 THE YELLOW SEVEN 

the two fugitives clearly visible a bare quarter of 
a mile distant. They were keeping close together, 
following a narrow path that led between flooded 
sections where a myriad green shoots thrust their 
heads above the surface, like weeds from a dank 
pool. Pennington was forging ahead at such a 
pace that the planter found it difficult to keep up 
with him* In twenty minutes they had halved the 
distance that stretched between them and their 
quarry. Half an hour later and Hyde had recog¬ 
nised Lai-Ho. He saw the white patch of his face 
as he glanced apprehensively back, and then lost 
both of them in a belt of trees that rose like an 
oasis in a desert. Pennington made a sudden spurt 
forward and vanished, too. On the other side of 
the trees the planter emerged alone to discover 
nothing but moonlight and still more paddy-land, 
flat and dismally unenlightening. Wondering 
greatly, he sank to a sitting position on a fallen 
log and felt for his pipe. A voice came to him from 
the darkness. 

“Hyde! where are you?” 

“Here. Where are you?” 

“In the proverbial soup,” returned Pennington, 
dropping from a bough. “They’ve split company, 
and got clean away with it.” He squatted on the 
ground at the planter’s feet. “Shall I tell you 
what, Hyde? There’s something I don’t quite 
understand about all this. Lai-Ho could have 


DUPED 


159 


poisoned us both at dinner if he ’d wanted.” 

Hyde glanced up from filling his brier. 

“Of course he could. He cooked the damned 
stuff. What then?” 

“Then why all that elaborate paraphernalia of 
the yellow seven and the knife and knockin’ out 
the lamp?” He laughed aloud. “Hyde, old son, 
we’ve been duped!” 

“Eh?” 

“We were meant to follow them; that’s all there 
is to it.” 

The planter was struggling with a match. 

“Pity you could n’t have thought all this out be¬ 
fore,” he grumbled. Presently, as the tobacco 
caught, his head came slowly round until his 
puzzled eyes fell upon those of his companion. 
“Why do you suppose they wanted to get us out of 
the way?” 

Chinese Pennington rose wearily. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted, “but I’ve a queer 
feeling in my bones that the sooner we ’re back 
again the better.” 

Hyde, glancing at his watch, was amazed to 
discover that it was close upon one o’clock. He 
turned to Pennington. 

“There’s a shorter cut, if we bear to the right. 
We should strike the railway in under half an 
hour.” 

Twenty yards from the boundary-wire a man 


160 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


on a pony almost rode them down. Both men 
stepped hastily from the track, and the new-comer, 
pulling up abruptly, slid to the ground and con¬ 
fronted them. It was Bateson, hatless, his straw- 
colored hair standing almost on end: his feet were 
thrust into canvas shoes only partly laced up; a 
drill tunic was drawn hastily over his pajamas; and 
his pale cheeks were unusually flushed. 

“Is that you, Hyde?” he cried hoarsely, peering 
forward. 

“You can make yourself easy on that score,” the 
manager assured him. “What on earth are you 
masquerading in fancy dress for—at this time of 
night?” 

But Pennington, an uncomfortable sensation 
passing down his spine, intervened. 

He dropped a heavy hand on Bateson's shoulder. 

“What’s wrong?” he demanded shortly. 

The assistant swallowed something in his throat. 

“It’s Dora. She’s disappeared!” 

“Disappeared!” It was Hyde who spoke. 
“But, man alive!” A glance from Pennington 
checked further utterance. 

“When did she go out?” he said, rolling a cigar¬ 
ette, his eyes fixed on Bateson all the while. 

“About ten. I was busy on the veranda with a 
couple of mandors, figuring out some work I 
wanted to get through to-morrow. I gathered that 


DUPED 


161 


she was going to see you. She carried a small 
parcel in her hand, and I remember expressing 
curiosity as to its contents. She told me it was 
something you had asked for.” 

Pennington started. 

“Something I had asked for,” he echoed incred- 
ulouusly, and then his face dropped. “What was 
it like?” 

Bateson appeared to reflect. 

“It was only a small thing,” he said, “and I 
could n’t see it very clearly. It looked to me like a 
fan.” 

Pennington caught Hyde’s arm and held it 
tightly. 

“Don’t jump at conclusions,” he whispered re¬ 
assuringly, seeing that the other had gone deathly 
white. 

“Have you been to Hyde’s bungalow, Bateson?” 

“Yes, I’ve only just come from there. There 
was a watchman on duty outside. Dora had been 
there, had waited for about an hour, and had 
gone out on foot. That’s what I can’t make out. 
I found her pony tethered where she had left it. 
The watchman did not think it his place to question 
her. The moon was well up when she left, and he 
was under the impression she was looking for 
something she had lost. It’s a queer business al¬ 
together,” he added helplessly. “The watchman 


162 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


told me she had both arms outstretched in front 
of her, and that she chose a path of her own be¬ 
tween the trees.” 

“Yes,” broke in Hyde impatiently. “What 
then?” 

“I found a hurricane-lamp and started off in 
the direction he indicated. At first her footsteps 
were pretty clearly marked, but after a hundred 
yards or so they petered out altogether. It seemed 
as if the earth had been freshly raked for some con¬ 
siderable distance, and then I ran across other 
tracks which, when followed, only brought me back 
to the spot from which I’d started.” He shud¬ 
dered involuntarily. “Pennington, what on earth 
does it all mean?” 

“It means that your wife has been kidnapped by 
the Yellow Seven gang and that there’s no sleep 
for any of us until we get her back. You found 
nothing on the path? nothing that could be of as¬ 
sistance?” 

Bateson shook his head. He dived a hand into 
a side-pocket and produced a crumpled mass of 
cane and cloth. 

“Nothing at all, except this. It was partly im¬ 
bedded in the soil, and I clung to it in sheer desper¬ 
ation, much as a drowming man grabs at a spar 
that will go under with his weight.” 

Pennington’s hand shot out and took it from 


DUPED 


163 


him. He spread it out on the saddle of the assist¬ 
ant’s pony that stood quietly grazing. Hyde 
peered over his shoulder. 

“What is it?” he inquired huskily. 

“I can’t answer you yet. I dare n’t. It’s 
nothing—or everything. Strike a light, one of 
you.” 

“I can tell you what’s on it,” jerked out Bateson 
suddenly. “It’s a Japanese fan—the thing, I 
imagine, that Dora was bringing to you. There’s 
a photograph on it—of Island N. That’s all.” 

Pennington gave a wild cry and started back, 
knocking the matches out of Hyde’s hand. 

“Hyde,” he shouted excitedly, “muster every 
watchman you’ve got; send out an urgent S O S to 
your assistants. Don’t trust a soul that has 
yellow blood in his veins, or we ’re lost. There’s 
a score of native fishermen at the water’s edge. 
Commandeer their canoes and get across to the is¬ 
land as soon as you can. Then take cover. As 
soon as you hear me fire, come. Is that quite 
clear?” 

The planter reached out for the reins of Bate¬ 
son’s pony. 

“Perfectly. What about you? How are you 
going to get across?” 

“That’s my affair. But when you come don’t 
look for Chinese Pennington. Search around for 


164 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


He Who Sees in the Dark, the Chinaman with the 
scarred face whom I think yon have already met.’’ 

He grinned broadly, waved his hand—and was 
gone. 


CHAPTER XVI 


A QUESTION OF RANSOM 

T HE oil lamp flared up suddenly, and 
Dora Bateson, crouching in a corner of 
the hut, saw the ponderous form of Chai- 
Hung creeping head foremost through 
the narrow aperture. He rose presently to his 
feet and, ducking to avoid the rough rafters that 
supported the sago-thatch, sat heavily upon a 
blackwood stool that was the only piece of furni¬ 
ture of which the hovel boasted. 

“Good evening, Mrs. Bateson,” he began in a 
grating voice that struck terror into her soul. 
“You are wondering no doubt why I have brought 
you here, and what I am going to do with you?” 

“I ? m not in the least bit afraid of you, Mr. Chai- 
Hung,” retorted the girl steadily, returning look 
for look. And, with the effort she had made to 
frame the words, she found her courage returning 
to her. She shifted into a more comfortable po¬ 
sition on the rotting boards, and, looking upward, 
caught a glimpse of a starlit heaven through a spot 
in the roof where the ataps had fallen away; and 

165 


166 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


the sight of those friendly constellations lent her 
an added confidence. 

Dora Bateson was afraid of shadows, but the 
substance held no terrors for her. The harsh 
voice of the notorious bandit, the trick he had of 
contracting his pupils until they became like 
points of fire, inspired her with a certain inexpli¬ 
cable fear; but she was by no means afraid of ChaL 
Hung himself. Before he had come to her she had 
lain on the floor of the hut into which the men had 
thrown her, pale and palpitating with a nameless 
fright of the unknown. Now that he sat before 
her, fat, lustful, oozing self-satisfaction at his prow¬ 
ess, she caught herself summing him up much in the 
same manner as a farmer might assess the salient 
points of a prize boar. 

“How did you get me here?” she demanded pres¬ 
ently. 

Chai-Hung smiled blandly. 

“It was exceedingly simple, Mrs. Bateson. If 
you are able to remember anything, you will admit 
that you started out apparently of your own ac¬ 
cord. That is what we term the Fan Trick. It 
is a relic of a science the East cultivated exten¬ 
sively—when the West was young.” 

Dora’s brow wrinkled. 

“The Fan Trick!” Her eyes sparkled with the 
light of sudden knowledge. “Then I am on Island 
N!” she exclaimed. “Are n’t you a trifle unwise, 


A QUESTION OF RANSOM 167 

Mr. Chai-Hung, in selecting a hiding-place so near 
to the mainland?” 

Chaig-Hung positively beamed. 

“Not in the least, my dear lady. Of all my 
enemies, there is only one that I have any cause 
to fear. You know him, perhaps? They call him 
He Who Sees in the Dark, but you would recognize 
him more readily under his real name, Chinese 
Pennington.” He paused to observe the effect of 
his words, but the girl controlled her features ad¬ 
mirably. “Pennington hounded me from Jessel- 
ton and drove me, as he still persists in believing, 
into the backwoods. He succeeded in one respect. 
He made it necessary for me to resort to strange 
expedients to obtain money. That is precisely 
why you are here to-night, Mrs. Bateson. They 
will never think to look for either of us here, for 
the simple reason that Pennington believes the 
great Chai-Hung to be far too cunning to choose 
such a ridiculously accessible spot for his lair! 
And so, if I were not so desperately in need of 
money, you and I could live here—until one of us 
got tired of the other’s company.” 

He gazed at her through half-closed lids, and 
the girl shuddered. 

“One of us is tired already, Mr. Chai- 
Hung !” 

The Oriental folded his hands over his enormous 
paunch and drew in a deep breath. And, with 



168 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


that breath, the veneer cracked. Dora sat star¬ 
ing in mute fascination at a hideous mask where 
the beaming, affable face of the bandit had once 
been.r 

“I shall send a messenger to your husband—for 
money/’ rasped Chai-Hung between his teeth. 
“If the messenger does not return, I shall send an¬ 
other and still another; for messengers are cheap, 
and the lips of the Yellow Seven are sealed. I 
shall ask for ten thousand dollars, one for each 
of your beautiful fingers. But, with each further 
messenger I shall send a finger—” 

The girl had risen suddenly to her feet, her eyes 
flashing fire. 

“You—devil!” 

Chai-Hung backed toward the opening, bowing 
as he did so. 

“I do not anticipate that you w r ill have to under¬ 
go to painful process of amputation very often, 
Mrs. Bateson,” he continued smoothly. 

Almost beside herself, she caught the blackwood 
stool from the floor, swinging it as high as the roof 
would permit; but before she could send it crash¬ 
ing into the leering face that mocked at her the 
form of a second Chinaman had wriggled noise¬ 
lessly through the aperture. The new-comer had 
a livid scar running the length of one cheek and 
wore a blue jacket with voluminous, tattered 
sleeves. As the girl stood petrified, staring with 


A QUESTION OF RANSOM 169 

wide-open eyes, she could have sworn that the 
stranger winked at her. 

“Good night, Mrs. Bateson,” Chai-Hung was say¬ 
ing, “I am going to despatch my first messenger.” 

An arm like a steel wire encircled his neck, and 
both men fell on the floor together. Something 
beneath the building cracked, and the entire edifice 
rocked dangerously. For moments that seemed 
like hours the struggle continued on a floor that 
swayed like the deck of a destroyer in a rough sea. 
Dora, the stool still in her hand, assured now as 
to the identity of the bandit’s antagonist, strove 
to keep her balance, creeping round the walls, over¬ 
come with a vague desire to render assistance. 

Presently Chai-Hung groaned, and she saw that 
Pennington knelt over him, both hands at the 
other’s throat, his knees forcing the bandit to re¬ 
linquish the grasp on his wrists. 

He called to her breathlessly. 

“Mrs. Bateson, can you use a revolver?” 

She nodded assent. 

“There’s an automatic in my hip-pocket. Get 
it out, if you can.” 

She fell on her knees and possessed herself of 
the weapon. 

“What do you want me to do?” 

“Nothing very desperate. Just fire in the air, 
through the roof, anywhere. It’s a signal for the 
others to come up.” 


170 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


She pointed the thing at the break in the ataps 
and pulled the trigger. The deafening report 
seemed to lend Chai-Hung fresh strength. With 
a superhuman effort he freed his arms and was 
forcing himself upward as the girl turned. She 
caught up the stool for a second time and hit out 
wildly. The bandit fell backward, Pennington 
muttered something between his teeth, and, as Dora 
staggered to regain her equilibrium, the crazy hut 
collapsed. 

She had a dim memory of sliding forward into 
space, of the lamp going out, of a mingling of con¬ 
fused cries, some distant, some close at hand. . . . 
Everything seemed to be coming down on top of 
her . . . she closed her eyes. 

She must have lost consciousness, for the next 
thing she remembered was Pennington’s voice. 

“Mrs. Bateson, are you all right?” 

She found herself reclining on a bed of moist 
weeds. 

“Yes, thanks. I believe I’m quite fit.” 

He was bending over her, his hands on his hips. 

“Why on earth did n’t you shoot him?” 

She rubbed her forehead. 

“I suppose I was n’t thinking. I could n’t have 
done that, anyway.” 

“No, I suppose not. Here’s your father coming. 
I must be off. The others are still scouring the 
island; but I’m afraid our luck’s out.” 


A QUESTION OF RANSOM 


171 


She started. 

“Not Chai-Hung? He has n’t got away?” 

“He has! He always does! Who would have 
dreamt the building would have done that! By-by, 
Mrs. Bateson. You were iust great! Cheerio, 
Hyde!” 

And the man with the Chinese eyes was gone. 


CHAPTER XVII 


A JUNGLE RENDEZVOUS 

A CHINAMAN leaned warily on the rail 
of a bamboo bridge, gazing thoughtfully 
downward at an oozing sea of black 
mud. Beyond the narrow barrier of 
cocoa-palms an ocean of lapis lazuli was impercep¬ 
tibly receding, leaving an ever-widening stretch of 
glittering sand where a turbaned syce was exercis¬ 
ing a pony, stirring up the sun-dried particles into 
a whirling cloud of dust behind him. The crazy 
bridge that spanned the swamp served as a con¬ 
necting link between the shore and the mainland, 
and from the inner extremity an ill defined path 
wound through coarse, stunted forest-wastes, teem¬ 
ing with shrill-voiced, chattering monkeys. Here, 
secure in his jungle-fastness, the great orang-utang 
defied the hunter, while the wa-wa, waddling on 
its hind legs like a ridiculous old man, masquer¬ 
aded as a link with a higher civilization. 

The mournful shrieking of a solitary hornbill 
roused the Oriental from his reverie and set his 
long fingers fumbling with the bottom of his tunic- 

pocket. He produced presently a gold hunter, 

172 


A JUNGLE RENDEZVOUS 


173 


swathed in a bag of dirty wash-leatlier, and, snap¬ 
ping open the front, surveyed the dial with ap¬ 
parent interest. It was full thirty seconds before 
he replaced the cover and slid the thing back into 
its original position. He stood for some moments 
motionless, his head slightly at an angle, then be¬ 
gan rolling a cigarette with practised care, draw¬ 
ing his tobacco from a rubber pouch that had seen 
much service. 

To the student of character, here was the pros¬ 
perous Chinese trader come to keep an appoint¬ 
ment which he himself had made with some one 
who was possibly a stranger to the district from 
which the w r atcher on the bridge derived his for¬ 
tunes. For he had selected an unmistakable land¬ 
mark for his rendezvous, more easily identified, 
perhaps, than his own residence. He wore a white 
drill tunic, buttoned up to the neck, wide-legged 
trousers of rustling black silk, and boots with 
elastic sides. An umbrella of oiled paper, yellow 
inside and red without, was tucked securely under 
one arm, and a solar topi of surprising white¬ 
ness contrasted strangely with the swarthy skin 
beneath. 

The thundering of the pony’s hoofs died away 
into the distance; a sudden, momentary silence 
fell upon the hidden monkey-colonies; arid the 
figure of an Englishman appeared at an opening 
between the trees. He stood for a moment gazing 


174 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


round him, and presently his glance fell upon the 
still form on the bridge. It was perhaps strange 
that at the very moment the Englishman’s eyes 
were turned in his direction the Oriental should 
become aware of the piercing rays of a tropic sun 
—and open the umbrella for which he had hitherto 
found no use! 

The new-comer started visibly and came forward 
with swift strides until he halted within a foot 
or two of the Chinaman. 

“Morning, Hewitt,” said the Celestial in sur¬ 
prisingly good English. “Glad you managed to 
roll up.” 

The commissioner of police started and, realiz¬ 
ing the fragile nature of the structure, grabbed at 
the rail for support. 

“Good Lord, Pennington! I did n’t know you.” 

“That’s precisely as it should be,” returned the 
other placidly. “I’m more than delighted to see 
you, because, for one thing, I know you’d like to 
be in at the death, and, for another, I’ve a hazy 
notion in the back of my mind that you don’t al¬ 
together agree with my methods.” 

“I don’t say that,” Hewitt returned wearily, 
“but I venture to contend that you don’t give your¬ 
self a fair chance. It’s perfectly natural for you 
to want all the kudos for the capture of Chai- 
Hung, but you ought to begin to realize by this 


A JUNGLE RENDEZVOUS 


175 


time that our murderous friend is not likely to be 
caught single-handed. Besides, old son, this 
lamentable affair’s gone on too long. I bn getting 
chits almost every day from the governor asking 
when the Yellow Seven gang are likely to be run 
to earth. You’ve had two chances already, you 
must remember—” 

The man with the Chinese eves frowned. 

“I ? ve had the luck of the devil,” he admitted, 
Although I’d like to impress on you that, but for 
me, nobody would have identified Chai-Hung with 
the gang at all. And,” he added defiantly, “there 
have been a lot less gang-murders on the island 
since I landed.” 

“There’d be fewer still—if we could bring Chai- 
Hung to justice.” 

A mottled claw, gaping up at him from the mud, 
caught his attention. “What’s that?” he de¬ 
manded. 

“A crab of some sort. There are tons of ’em 
down there.” 

The commissioner caught his arm. 

“If you don’t mind, we ’ll continue our discus¬ 
sion on terra firma.” 

They left the bridge and, threading their way 
through the trees, came presently to a solitary hut, 
raised high on poles, a bamboo ladder giving ac¬ 
cess to a hole in the woodwork. It stood in a wide 



176 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


clearing, waist-high with lalang, and both men 
held their hands above their heads to avoid cutting 
them on the leaves of the treacherous weeds. 

Hewitt followed Pennington up the ladder into 
the single apartment of which the edifice boasted. 
The latter pushed forward a box and, squatting 
contentedly on the rough flooring, felt behind him 
in some mysterious recess for beer. 

“And so,” said the commissioner, withdrawing 
his lips from the mouth of the bottle with a re¬ 
sounding smack, “I ’m to be in at the death, am 
I?” 

Chinese Pennington nodded. 

“I ’ll admit I’ve been a long time over this job,” 
he said, “but Chai-Hung 's not a common or garden 
malefactor: he’s a genius. He had every blessed 
Chinaman on the island under his thumb—once.” 

Hewitt looked up sharply. 

“Once?” he echoed blankly. 

“Before I drove him into the backwoods, 
hounded him to Island N, and effectively cut off 
his source of supplies. No sort of organization 
can thrive on air! Nor can these imaginative 
gentry cling together under one leadership without 
a certain amount of excitement. They ’re losing 
faith in the great Chai-Hung. They ’re falling 
away. D ’you happen to recollect a certain chance 
remark made months ago at your bungalow? Chai- 
Hung pretended to scoff at secret societies and re- 


A JUNGLE RENDEZVOUS 


177 


minded you that these societies in the East are 
very much in the same category as trade-unions in 
the West. In some respects, I ’in inclined to be¬ 
lieve he was right. At any rate, no self-respecting 
artisan is likely to continue supporting a union 
from which he stands to reap no benefit. I’ve 
clipped Chai-Hung’s wings. He’s driven into a 
corner—” 

The commissioner shuddered involuntarily. 

“Chai-Hung in a corner is not a very pleasant 
thing to think about,” he said quietly. “There’s 
something deuced uncanny about that gentleman. 
He has always reminded me of a venomous ser¬ 
pent.” 

“He’s a trifle worse even than that,” added 
Pennington. “You know where a snake’s fangs are 
situated; you can judge approximately from what 
angle he is likely to strike.” He shifted his posi¬ 
tion on the bare boards and felt for his poucln 

“How’s Monica?” he inquired presently. 

The commissioner smiled. 

“Pretty fit. I’ve got a note for you in one of 
my pockets.” The lines of his handsome face har¬ 
dened suddenly, and he began stroking his black 
hair with the fiat of his hand. “Look here, Penn. 
When are you two going to get married? Monica’s 
fretting her soul out because you ’re still prowl¬ 
ing about, carrying your life in your hands. If 
you were actually the confounded young idiot you 


178 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


appear to be sometimes, I would n’t tell you all 
this. I’d be the last man to explain to any 
ordinary feller that a sister of mine was missing 
meals on his account. But I’m counting on you 
to understand my motives. Monica’s had a deuce 
of a hard time up to now, and—I want to see her 
happy.” 

Pennington’s long fingers closed suddenly over 
the commissioner’s and held them tightly. 

“Thanks,” he whispered huskily. “It’s uncom¬ 
mon good of you—and I appreciate it. It won’t 
be long now. I swore I’d wait until I’d got Chai- 
Hung by the heels; and, by heaven! I mean to 
have him this time. You understand the most of 
me, Jack, but you’ve missed a certain side of my 
character that even I was n’t aware of—until I 
met her. The white men that the cursed China¬ 
man has murdered in cold blood lie heavily on 
my soul. In a queer sort of way I feel directly 
responsible for everything Chai-Hung has done 
since I first came here. The feeling has grown 
upon me until it’s become an obsession. I’m no 
longer the instrument of a European power, using 
my facial peculiarities and knowledge of dialects 
to wipe out a Chinese faction! It’s Pennington 
against Chai-Hung; his life or mine.” He paused 
for a moment, the muscled of his face twitching 
strangely, the points of his fingers pressed together 
in front of him. “I’ve worked damned hard since 


A JUNGLE RENDEZVOUS 


179 


I came here, harder perhaps than even you imagine. 
I ? ve had a score of identities. I ’ye squatted on 
the ground round smoldering camp-fires, slept in 
opium-hells, wandered from kampon to kampon , 
unrecognized, my ears open for the slightest sus¬ 
picion of a clue that would throw me on the track 
of my quarry. I’ve been in the hands of Chai- 
Hung’s mercenaries—and wriggled out of them 
again. I ? ve held the bandit twice—and lost him 
because I was alone and the odds against me were 
too great.” His eyes blazed suddenly with a 
strange light. “But I ? ve got him this time, Jack, 
because the luck is on my side at last.” 

He broke off, trembling with excited emotion, 
and the commissioner, observing him curiously, 
saw that great beads of perspiration stood out on 
his temples. 

“Where is he?” he asked quietly. 

Pennington was clipping the stray ends of to¬ 
bacco from a freshly rolled cigarette. 

“In a lone hut in a gully with a wall of solid 
rock behind him and as many of your agents as I 
could muster watching every possible approach.” 

Hewitt shook his head sadly. 

“Still the persistent optimist,” he said grimly. 
“How many times have you drawn your net in, 
only to find that Chai-Hung has escaped it?” 

“True, O King! And yet—” He tightened the 
skin of one hand with a swift movement that com- 



180 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


pletely surprised a mosquito in the act of sucking 
his blood, and despatched it smartly. “And yet, 
old son, I’ve got Chai-Hung—like that! He’s 
down with fever, and none of the followers who 
still stand by him dare shift him—if they could. 
A queer thing that, Jack! He who has success¬ 
fully defied every effort of a white civilization to 
entrap him has succumbed to the common enemy 
of us all!” 

The commissioner bent forward until the box 
on wdiich he sat tilted dangerously. 

“How d ’you know all this?” 

“I’ve seen him!” 

“What?” 

Chinese Pennington blew out a cloud of blue 
smoke and watched it as it ascended roofward. 

“I told you that Chai-Hung’s men were desert¬ 
ing. I scouted round until I bribed one of them 
to take me to his lair. It was a mighty tough 
proposition, I can tell you, and if the feller had 
guessed for a moment who I was—he’d have 
throwm in his hand. I pitched a yarn that I had 
heard of the great bandit and had come all the 
way from Singapore to settle a dispute that had 
arisen as to whether such a man as Chai-Hung 
existed £t all. He took me to be a Chinese mag¬ 
nate with more money than sense, and consented, 
on the condition I went alone and unarmed. I 
wormed my way to the hut—and peered through 


A JUNGLE RENDEZVOUS 181 

a convenient crack where the timbers had worked 
apart. Chai-Hung lay on a sort of stretcher. I 
saw enough to satisfy me that there could be no 
possible deception. There were a dozen or so of 
his followers in the room, and a pack of Chinese 
playing-cards spread face downward on the table/’ 

“I know,” broke in Hewitt grimly. “They were 
drawing for the yellow seven. I’m not likely to 
forget the time when you pulled me out of a tight 
corner, when they’d got me bound hand and foot 
and were drawing lots for the sheer pleasure of 
assassinating me. Go on.” 

“The pack was gradually diminishing. There 
were only thirteen cards left; I counted them as 
they lay in the yellow light of the lamp. There 
was a dramatic pause, and in the grim silence that 
followed only one man spoke. It was Lai-Ho, 
Hyde’s old servant, and he spoke so softly that I 
only caught one single word—my own name! And 
then a strange thing happened. The arch-bandit, 
who had lain still and motionless as a corpse, 
raised himself on one arm. It was as if the sound 
of his enemy’s name had lent him strength. His 
fingers, emaciated with the fever that consumed 
him, hovered over the table—then dropped on a 
single card. He was too weak to take it, and the 
thing fluttered to the floor, falling face uppermost 
not a yard from where I waited, scarcely daring 
to breathe.” 



182 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“The yellow seven!” Hewitt’s lips formed the 
words almost unconsciously. 

Pennington inclined his head. 

“The lot had fallen upon Chai-Hung himself to 
take my life. And Chai-Hung lay like a dead 
thing, weakened even with the sheer exertion of 
his effort, while his intended victim watched un¬ 
seen !”. 

A lizard piped shrilly from the rotting roof, and 
a giant cockroach crossed the floor within an inch 
of Pennington’s foot, but neither man noticed. 
They sat looking into each other’s eyes, and the 
commissioner had paled visibly under the tan of 
many years spent beneath the pitiless rays of an 
Eastern sun. 

“And you believe that nothing can save Chai- 
Hung?” 

The younger man’s hands rose in the air and fell 
heavily to his knees. 

“Nothing—but a miracle.” 

Hewitt felt for his pipe and sucked at the stem 
thoughtfully. 

“I’ve only met one miracle-worker in the whole 
of my existence,” he admitted, “and that was— 
Chai-Hung!” 

At the foot of the bamboo ladder the commis¬ 
sioner turned to Pennington. 

“I thought you’d like to know that Monica in¬ 
sisted on coming with me on this trip. To tell you 


A JUNGLE RENDEZVOUS 


183 


the honest truth, I had n’t the heart to refuse her. 
We ’re staying at Dawson’s bungalow. Why don’t 
you run along and see her?” 

A look of pain crept into the other’s face. 

“I dare n’t,” he said thickly, “I want to see this 
thing through first.” 

The other nodded sympathetically. 

“When are you going to collar him?” 

“To-night. Come to me here at nine—and come 
armed.” 

The commissioner’s form was out of sight be¬ 
yond the first fringe of stunted trees before Pen¬ 
nington turned on his heel and went back to the 
bamboo bridge where Hewitt had first found him. 



CHAPTER XVIII 


THE COMMISSIONER MEETS LAI-HO 

T HE sun was already at its zenith when 
the commissioner of police halted 
abruptly at a spot where two jungle 
paths met—and realized that he had 
lost his bearings. It was precisely at that moment 
that he began to regret that Pennington had not 
offered to accompany him. Pennington had an 
uncanny knack of finding his way through terri¬ 
tory that was absolutely unknown to him. It was 
as if that extraordinary freak of birth that had 
presented him with the eyes of an Oriental had 
gifted him also with the mysterious instincts of 
the primeval savage. But Hewitt, who was forced 
to spend the majority of his days cooped up in his 
office at the coast-town, was hopelessly out of his 
element in the wilds. 

On either side of the converging tracks the 
matted undergrowth formed a formidable barrier, 
while overhead the interlacing foliage blotted out 
all but unenlightening patches of blue sky. It 
was very still beneath the trees, and the droning 
of a burrowing bee, humming past his ear, caused 

184 


THE COMMISSIONER MEETS LAI-HO 185 


him to start and look round. Despite the appa¬ 
rent peacefulness of the landscape, he found him¬ 
self gripped suddenly with a nameless dread. 
And, just as a chance perfume may serve to recall 
a long-forgotten incident, this eery, inexplicable 
fear that obsessed him took his memory back to 
a mountain glade in a shell-swept zone that had 
somehow failed to attract the unwelcome atten¬ 
tions of the enemy’s artillery. He had lingered 
there, lulled by its unmarred beauty into a sense 
of false security; and presently, like a bolt from 
the blue, the swift-winged, steel-encased messenger 
of death had terminated its shrieking flight so 
close to where he sat that he felt the breath of its 
coming. It had left him with a queer, metallic 
taste in his mouth, a dull throbbing in his ears, a 
stifling, sulphurous odor in his nostrils, and a vi¬ 
sion of a gaping chasm from which forest monarchs 
had been bodily uprooted, and from the depths of 
which a faint film of smoke still issued. He 
squared his shoulders with an effort and swallowed 
down the uncomfortable feeling that held him 
motionless. Ten seconds later he was swinging 
down the left of the two paths, beating aside the 
encroaching brambles with his stout Malacca. 

The track was growing imperceptibly wilder, 
and at intervals he felt the rays of the sun that 
poured down on him where the trees were set 
farther apart. He glanced up suddenly, then, 


186 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


white to the roots of his hair, darted behind the 
trunk of a jackfruit-tree, flattening himself 
against the bark. He knew now that he had taken 
the wrong path, for, straight ahead of him, rose 
a wall of rock, sheer and frowning. At the foot 
of the rock nestled a broad, squat hut, roofed with 
dried sago-leaves. Sitting tranquilly at his ease, 
his fat fingers interlaced over an enormous paunch 
that even fever had not succeeded in reducing to 
any appreciable extent, was Chai-Hung. He sat 
alone, wrapped in a blanket acquired in one of 
his numerous raids, his feet crossed in front of 
him, his back resting against one of the poles that 
supported the building. 

For a matter of seconds the commissioner of 
police stared in mute fascination at this unex¬ 
pected apparition. A prolonged scrutiny left no 
doubt in his mind as to the accuracy of Penning¬ 
ton’s statement. Chai-Hung had been ill. There 
were dark rings under his eyes, his cheeks had 
fallen in, and the rolls of fat that hung from his 
jowl were suspended like the shapeless lines of a 
deflating balloon. 

The bandit rose to his feet with a sudden effort, 
clutching at the pole for support. Presently he 
steadied himself and came slowly toward the spot 
where Hewitt was hiding, his beady eyes blazing 
with a light that was almost supernatural. The 


THE COMMISSIONER MEETS LAI-HO 18T 

commissioner, fumbling for his hip-pocket, swayed 
sideways and broke the spell that held him. 
Scarcely aware of what he was doing, he left the 
trees and, covering half the distance that separated 
them, leveled his automatic deliberately at Chai- 
Hung. 

The Oriental did not flinch. He let the blanket 
slip from his broad shoulders and returned the 
other’s gaze with a placid smile. 

“You want to see me, Captain Hewitt?” he in¬ 
quired with that oily smoothness he could pour 
over the habitual harshness of his intonation when 
he chose. 

“I want you to put both your hands above your 
head, Mr. Chai-Hung, and to come with me im¬ 
mediately.” 

The bandit smiled again. 

“May I ask where you propose taking me? It 
would be unkind perhaps to remind you that you 
have lost your way!” 

He lifted both arms as he spoke, apparently in 
accordance with Hewitt’s request; and at that mo¬ 
ment the commissioner felt himself pinioned se¬ 
curely from behind. So suddenly and cleverly 
conceived was the attack that the Englishman was 
overpowered without a struggle, and bound hand 
and foot with leathern thongs swiftly and securely 
knotted. And, as he lay helpless at the bandit’s 


188 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


feet, Chai-Hung signaled for the; stool of carved 
blaekwood that still remained outside his tempo¬ 
rary residence. 

“I am going to take you into my confidence, Mr. 
Commissioner,” he said. “I am a desperate man, 
driven by your agents into a corner, forced to suffer 
privations that do not altogether agree with one 
of my habits. I am ill, as you see, but I am going 
to recover. My wings have been clipped, but they 
will grow again. The Chinese Dragon, Captain 
Hewitt, is many-headed; and each head has a 
fang.” The corners of his evil mouth turned down. 
“Have you ever heard of a sixth sense? a mysteri¬ 
ous intuition that indicates when one is being 
spied upon? I felt the promptings of that sense 
last night. The man they call He Who Sees in 
the Dark came to my house, and you w T ill under¬ 
stand me fully when I tell you that I returned the 
call . The man who brought this Pennington to 
me—I have dealt with. I have put out his eyes, 
so that he will never see again; I have removed 
his fingers, so that he may never point out the way. 
There are only three people in existence who stand 
between Chai-Hung and the freedom of movement 
he desires. You know them all, Cai)tain Hewitt. 
There is Chinese Pennington, your sister—and 
yourself. Now, observe how cleverly I have 
separated them. You are already in my power; 
Pennington is waiting for nightfall down by the 



THE COMMISSIONER MEETS LAI-HO 189 

sago-swamp; and Mrs. Viney is alone in Dawson’s 
bungalow—alone, because I have arranged that 
Dawson shall be kept away until I think it fit for 
him to return.’’ He paused for a moment, and the 
preposterously exaggerated finger-nail pointed to¬ 
ward the commissioner. “Each shall perish in his 
turn, and each in a different manner. I am re¬ 
serving you for the last, because I should like you 
to live long enough to realize the power of Chai- 
Hung, the inevitable triumph of the Yellow Seven. 
I think I can safely assure you that you will not 
have to wait long!” 

He reached for a branch and, pulling himself to 
his feet, went slowly back to the hut, a hunch¬ 
backed coolie following him with the stool. 

Hewitt, a prey to a host of unpleasant reflec¬ 
tions, tore feebly at the thongs that held him. A 
sudden movement in his immediate vicinity caused 
him to jerk his head painfully round. He saw a 
short, thick-set Oriental with a parang hung from 
his waist leaning truculently against the jackfruit- 
tree. 

“You will remember me, O Englishman,” said 
the sentry grimly. “I am Lai-Ho, that was the 
servant of Hyde. It would be better perhaps to re¬ 
main still.” 

It was more than an hour before Chai-Hung re¬ 
turned. He was superbly clad in a mandarin 
jacket of blue embroidered with silver dragons, and 


190 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


the dwarf followed at a discreet interval carrying 
a red umbrella and a Chinese tea-pot in a nickel 
case that resembled a biscuit-barrel. 

“I am on my way to take tea with your sister, 
Captain Hewitt/’ he purred maliciously. “Exercis¬ 
ing my customary caution, I am taking my own 
tea!” 

He moved on down the path, and the commis¬ 
sioner, his spirits at zero, marveled at the com¬ 
pleteness of his recovery. 

He glanced up at Lai-Ho. 

“I will give you a thousand dollars and a free 
pardon if you will cut these thongs with your 
parang ” he said. 

“I would sooner keep my eyes, and my fingers,” 
retorted Lai-Ho without emotion. 


CHAPTER XIX 


CHINA TEA 

M OST women living in tropical places 

would have given their all to discover 
the secret whereby Monica Viney man¬ 
aged to preserve the freshness of col¬ 
oring she had brought with her when she first came 
to Borneo to keep house for her brother. It was 
an established fact that no artificial aids had been 
sought to accomplish this end, and, even in her 
present state of mental worry as to Pennington’s 
safety, this one of her many natural charms re¬ 
mained to her. She was young and slim, and her 
shock of bobbed curls encircled her head like a 
glorious halo. Until Pennington came upon the 
scene, there had been a great deal of idle specula¬ 
tion as to which of the endless circle of eligible 
bachelors that surrounded her would be fortunate 
enough to lead this amazingly attractive widow to 
the altar for a second time. And few if any of 
the gossips whose marital responsibilities placed 
them outside the pale imagined for a single mo¬ 
ment that this placid wanderer of the jungle 
wastes held a winning hand. 

191 




192 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


Quite apart from the imminent risks that threat¬ 
ened her lover, Monica, although she would never 
have acknowledged it, was desperately curious to 
know how the duel between Pennington and Chai- 
Hung would end. The rules of the game were 
quite beyond her, and yet, when the Englishman 
explained to her some of the moves he had made, 
she had followed rapt in admiration. 

From the moment she had left the little ram¬ 
shackle train to accompany her brother to Dawson’s 
bungalow, she had become haunted with a vague, 
indefinite fear that she was being followed. She 
had confided her fears to the commissioner, but 
Hewitt, seeing in this sudden conviction still an¬ 
other symptom of the nervous trouble he had al¬ 
ready noticed, had not expressed surprise. 

“One gets odd notions in these parts,” he told 
her easily. “It’s that same queer restlessness you 
hear among the trees that gives rise to hosts of 
native superstitions.” 

The explanation had sounded logical enough, 
but, on the afternoon of the day Hewitt had started 
out to meet Pennington, Monica encountered Chai- 
Hung himself in a narrow glade not a quarter of a 
mile from Dawson’s house. 

She had reined in her pony instinctively, not 
wishing to ride him down, and, before she could 
sufficiently recover from the shock of this unex- 


CHINA TEA 193 

pected meeting, the bandit had planted himself full 
in the middle of the path. 

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Viney.” 

Monica inclined her head. 

“Is n’t it delightfully cool under the trees?” she 
faltered as pleasantly as she knew how. She was 
aware of an uncomfortable feeling that Chai-Hung 
was a dangerous criminal with a price on his head, 
a celebrity, in fact, that she must deal with tact¬ 
fully until she could somehow manage to get in 
touch with one of Dawson’s men. “Do you mind 
letting me pass; I’m in a frantic hurry.” 

Chai-Hung appeared to reflect. He stepped 
presently aside as she walked her pony past him, 
his piercing eyes never leaving her face. 

She stared hard at a leaf that gleamed white in 
a truant ray of tropical sunshine that had managed 
to pierce the screen of foliage above; but a force, 
greater than any she had yet encountered, seemed 
to be tugging at her. A drowsy feeling crept over 
her, and she woke, as if from a dream, to find her¬ 
self looking down into orbs that glowed like wells 
of fire. The flabby fingers of the bandit had closed 
round the bridle, and the Bajau pony was brows¬ 
ing on the soft herbage that fringed the forest 
track. 

“One is never in a hurry in Borneo,” he was 
saying in a voice that grated on her nerves like 


194 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


tearing silk. “You Lave scarcely had time, I sup¬ 
pose, to learn that very excellent motto we employ 
out here: ‘To-morrow will do as well!’ It is a 
wise saying, .Mrs. Viney, and one that you would 
do well to follow. Do not seek to do too much. 
Do not seek to know too much; for rest is beneficial 
where the sun is hot, and too much knowledge is 
often fatal! I should like you to come and see me 
sometimes. It must be lonely up there, with your 
brother so much away from you; and the young 
police officer who masquerades in so many garbs 
has far too much on his hands at the moment to 
spend his afternoons entertaining pretty women.” 

“I’m afraid that would be impossible,” Monica 
hastened to assure him. “It must be perfectly 
obvious to you, Mr. Chai-Hung, that under existing 
circumstances, a visit such as you suggest is 
entirely out of the question.” Her cheeks had 
gone suddenly pale, and two bright spots of crim¬ 
son glowed beneath her eyes. “It’s too ridiculous 
for words,” she added with sudden indignation, 
“Please let go my bridle.” 

“I admire you immensely,” he continued with a 
smoothness that filled the girl with utter loathing. 
“I do not presume to imagine you have given 
credence to the exaggerated fairy-tales that have 
been spread abroad concerning my supposed ex¬ 
ploits. Neither would you be prepared to condemn 
me without a trial. You will hardly believe me, 


CHINA TEA 


195 


perhaps, when I tell you I was actually on my way 
to see you when I had the good fortune to meet you 
face to face. I was coming to leave my card.” 

Despite herself, Mrs. Viney could not restrain 
a smile. It seemed so utterly ludicrous—this 
plausible brigand, a robber-chief in point of fact, 
referring, on the remotest fringes of civilization, 
to a trifling detail of the courtesies of a suburban 
drawing-room. 

“Mr. Chai-Hung,” she protested. “You have 
seen fit to credit me wdth a certain amount of in¬ 
telligence. I felt highly flattered, I assure you, 
until you deliberately proceeded to insult it. 
Now, will you be good enough to let me go?” 

An ugly light shone in Chai-Hung’s eyes, and he 
raised his voice lo a pitch that sent a chill sensa¬ 
tion passing down her spine. 

“I was going to tell you where I now live. Are 
you—afraid to come and see me, Mrs. Viney?” 

“Afraid! Of course not. Why should I be 
afraid?” 

“That is precisely what I am trying to find out. 
You are young and exceedingly curious. You 
thirst for knowledge in every shape and form. 
You have never, I believe, seen the interior of the 
house of a Chinese gentleman. You must never¬ 
theless be aware that it is a museum of priceless 
treasures. You will find wonderful furniture, 
rare porcelain, cabinets of lacquer and gilt—and 


196 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


jewels—” He paused and screwed up his eyes 
until they appeared to have vanished altogether. 
“Jewels from every quarter of the earth. And yet 
you are afraid—very afraid, Mrs. Viney.” 

Monica did not answer. 

“Are you afraid of —that f” 

He held the thing before her face, so closely 
that she started back, momentarily incapable of 
visualizing it. Suddenly she clutched at the 
saddle and uttered a wild, piercing scream that set 
a colony of monkeys shrieking and gibbering in 
chorus. She was staring as if fascinated at a long 
narrow strip of pasteboard, yellow and shiny, with 
seven black dots marked clearly on its surface. 

A second later and the Chinaman had uttered a 
peculiar, guttural cry; and footsteps began pat¬ 
tering down the glade behind her. Chai-Hung 
reached up as if to pull her from the saddle. She 
felt the touch of his hands on her body, and saw, 
as through a mist, the light of hideous triumph 
shining through features from which every vestige 
of benevolence had vanished. She sat there, white 
and trembling, paralyzed as a rabbit before the 
onslaught of a python, aware of the horror of her 
position, yet incapable of forcing her muscles to 
action. 

The pony, which had been peacefully feeding, 
brought its head up with a sudden jerk, causing 
Ohai-Hung to slip sideways, losing his balance; 


CHINA TEA 


197 


and Monica, the shock bringing her to her senses, 
found herself raining blows from her riding-stock 
at the yellow horror at her side. 

Before the ring of Chai-Hung’s men could en¬ 
circle her, she had pricked the pony’s flanks and 
ridden wildly down the forest path, swaying to 
and fro as she went, her aureole of soft curls blow¬ 
ing in the breeze. 

She had a dim memory of the familiar outline 
of Dawson’s bungalow, of a cook -boy taking the 
reins from her trembling fingers; and then 
she knew that she was lying, face downward, on 
a long cane chair, sobbing as if her heart would 
break. 

Centuries seemed to pass before she could muster 
up the courage to shout for the servant. 

He shuffled in, in answer to her call, and stood 
before her, grinning inanely. 

“Where is the tuan Hewitt?” she inquired 
huskily. 

“He went out before makan, and has not yet 
returned.” 

The remains of an alarm-clock ornamented a 
rough shelf at the far end of the veranda, and she 
surveyed its cracked dial, seeking enlightenment. 

“Not back yet?” she echoed blankly. “And the 
tuan Dawson?” 

The creature curled up his bare toes and spread 
out his hands—like fins. 


198 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“The tuan-liakim eats the air also.” 

She stared over the veranda-rail toward a fringe 
of feathery palms that skirted the clearing. There 
was nobody in sight. The whole landscape was 
eloquent of the desolate loneliness that gripped her 
soul. She had n’t bargained for this. 

u Bi-la” she said in a tone that signified dis¬ 
missal. And still the cook -boy hesitated. 

“Will the mem-sahib take tea?” 

Monica started. She wondered vaguely whether 
the native had noticed anything unusual in her 
appearance, or whether he was merely prompted 
by the dictates of the customs of the European 
whom his function in life it was to serve. 

“Yes, I will have tea as soon as possible. I am 
very tired,” she added, as if an excuse was nec¬ 
essary. 

The boy had almost disappeared through the 
doorway when she called after him. 

“Will you send one of the tuan-liakim's order¬ 
lies. I wish to speak to him.” 

“The master has taken them all. A messenger 
came to him an hour ago with an important paper. 
He was in a great hurry, for he did not stop to 
tell me when he would be back.” 

Her head dropped into her hands. It seemed so 
strange that everybody should have gone. In her 
excited frame of mind, she pictured it all as part 
and parcel of a cleverly contrived conspiracy. 


CHINA TEA 


199 


She longed for the advent of tea, for anything to 
break the monotony. Her eyes closed. 

Dawson’s servant, entering noiselessly, set the 
tray on the table in front of her. She glanced up 
wearily to see the Oriental fall to his hands on 
the boards, flattening himself abjectly, his teeth 
chattering together like a man with the ague. 
Following the direction of his frightened eyes, 
she became aware that a broad shadow had fallen 
across the floor. The color left her cheeks, and 
her hand shook so that some of the amber fluid 
fell from the spout on the lacquer tray. 

Chai-Hung stood on the threshold, his hands 
clasped in front of him, beaming amiably despite 
a certain shortness of breath. Behind him, on the 
wooden stairway, a humpback coolie, a red paper 
umbrella stuck under one arm, carried between his 
two hands a thing that resembled a biscuit-box, 
shaped like a barrel, with a knob at one side and 
a handle at the top the existence of which did not 
appear to have occurred to him. 

“I trust I am not intruding, Mrs. Viney?” 
He dropped uninvited into a chair. “I have 
hastened to offer my apologies for my conduct 
this afternoon. I have not been very well, and the 
remains of a fever from which I had been suffering 
went to my head.” 

Monica went on pouring out until her cup over¬ 
flowed. 


200 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“You see, I have brought my own tea,” pursued 
the bandit cheerfully, taking the metal box from 
the dwarf, who promptly effaced himself. “It is 
one of our customs which must appear rather 
strange to you, Mrs. Viney. In ancient times, 
which fortunately, perhaps, are past, nobody could 
tell who were one’s friends and who were enemies. 
A very favorite method of despatching one’s 
enemies was—by poison. Hence this quaint port¬ 
able tea-pot. It was invented many centuries be¬ 
fore your vacuum-flask, and yet it possesses certain 
of its qualities. Here we have the outer sheath, 
a metal container simply, with a hinged flap 
to cover the spout. If I were to show you 
the inside, you would find a china pot with a 
padding all around it of horsehair sewed into 
silk.” 

Monica, her interest suddenly aroused, looked up 
at him. He was holding the thing as his servant 
had done, and not by the metal handle in the lid. 
He leaned easily forward and placed it on the table 
near her, just clear of the tray. 

“Don’t imagine for one instant that I brought it 
here because I believed you would poison me,” he 
observed with the innocent smile of a child. “It 
caught my eye as I left, and I fancied that it might 
serve to amuse you.” With a deft movement, he 
tilted up the cap. “Observe the spout!” 

Monica, carried away by the excitement of the 


CHINA TEA 


201 


afternoon, by the flood of apparently inconsequent 
chatter that flowed easily from the intruder’s lips, 
forced an exclamation of delight. A voice within 
her, however, kept repeating itself over and over 
again, warning her to be on her guard. Dawson’s 
servant had crawled to his kitchen-quarters, and 
she sat alone at tea with the most dreaded des¬ 
perado in Eastern waters. There was no trace, 
however, beneath the mask of affability he now 
wore, of the hideous idol that had frightened her 
in the forest. 

As Chai-Hung had so accurately pronounced, 
Monica was inordinately curious. Her fingers 
itched to explore further, and presently they hov¬ 
ered over the handle. 

a May I?” she demanded sweetly. 

“By all means,” said the bandit, his head thrust 
forward. “I must explain one thing. You will 
find our tea a little different to that to which you 
are accustomed.” 

“I remember,” broke in Mrs. Yiney, gaining 
courage. “You told us once that we had treated 
the beverage shamefully, diluting it with milk 
and spoiling it with water. That was it, was n’t 
it?” 

“You have a wonderful memory, Mrs. Yiney!” 

She grasped the handle and lifted the lid a frac¬ 
tion of an inch. The difficulty she had anticipated 
was not there. It came away quite easily. 


1 


202 THE YELLOW SEVEN 

“I’m afraid your tea will be cold/’ she told him. 
“The lid was unfastened.” 

The sky had suddenly become overcast, and she 
caught the patter of heavy raindrops outside. A 
gust of wind, rising with incredible fury, lifted the 
sago-thatch, and the crash of breaking crockery 
came from the back of the house. 

She raised the lid and, as she bent to look inside, 
a lithe form vaulted the rail, and, whirling the 
pot from her hands, sent it spinning into Chai- 
Hung’s lap. She sprang to her feet, her eyes 
blazing indignation, to find Rabat-Pilai crouching 
between her and her guest. He held a yard of 
naked steel in his right hand, and the look that the 
creature flashed back at her frightened her. 

Chai-Hung sat bolt upright in his chair, his arms 
held wide apart, gazing at the writhing, sinuous 
body of a snake that was swiftly uncoiling itself 
from the interior of the false tea-pot. 

She swayed and clutched at the rail to steady 
herself. She dared not realize how near death had 
been. As through a mist, she saw the avenging 
figure of Pennington’s agent, the pale face of the 
bandit and the head of the serpent drawn back to 
strike. 

A shout from the far side of the clearing brought 
her to her senses. Through the teeming deluge 
she caught sight of two figures hurrying toward 


CHINA TEA 


203 


her. Her head throbbed wildly. The man on the 
right was her brother, and the other who kept pace 
with him was undoubtedly Chinese Pennington. 
And then the cyclone came. 


CHAPTER XX 


THE TATTOOED TRADER 

J AMES VARNEY’S bungalow was a land¬ 
mark. It stood on the summit of a hill at 
the foot of which the turbid Tembakut River, 
sweeping from some mysterious point of ori¬ 
gin in the Borneo hinterland, swerved abruptly, 
and, leaving in its wake a muddy delta infested 
with crocodiles, continued its onward course to the 
sea; a treacherous, uncompromising waterway, 
seemingly navigable to vessels of moderate draft, 
yet abounding with hidden mud-banks and discon¬ 
certing shallows. 

Varney knew that river and had charted it as 
accurately as it was possible to chart anything in 
the lesser known regions of a perplexing Orient, 
notoriously unchanging on the surface but altering 
in detail at every moment. He understood the 
habits and customs of the Dyak villagers whose 
dwellings clustered along the palm-girt banks like 
so many separate herds of long-legged, mythologi¬ 
cal monsters quenching their thirst, and whose 
canoes were tethered to the poles that supported 
their houses, the yellow waters sustaining these 


THE TATTOOED TRADER 


205 


frail crafts in a state of perpetual motion. It was 
possibly for these reasons that a discriminating 
syndicate in London, which exploited the cocoanut 
from its outer husk to the oil that lurked beneath 
its hard exterior, had seen tit to intrust him with 
their interests and to place him in sole possession 
of a view that delighted his heart whenever he 
pushed open the shuttered window for his morning 
shave. 

Varney was thirty-seven; he was short, more¬ 
over, and stockily built, with a rugged, kindly 
countenance upon which the tropical sun had set 
its unmistakable sign and superscription. Men 
had so long regarded him as a confirmed bachelor 
that he had begun to believe in the phenomenon 
himself, and lived alone in a house of four bare 
rooms, a broad veranda, a well stocked cellar—and 
somewhat primitive kitchen-quarters at the back. 
He had a dog—a shambling, friendly animal of un¬ 
known breed—an extensive library of faded, 
cloth-bound books, and a marked preference for 
Dutch tobacco. He was a man of many conflicting 
personalities, tacking on with every new task the 
particular characteristic that appeared to suit it. 
The Varney who at brief intervals confronted a 
London board of directors differed in many essen¬ 
tials from the Varney who palavered with a native 
chief over a dinner of nameless horrors, or chaf¬ 
fered with a stolid Dutchman between mouthfuls 


206 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


of curry, the myriad varying ingredients of which 
would have brought tears to the eyes of hardened 
campaigners. In short, he was blessed with a sort 
of sensitive inner compensating balance that en¬ 
abled him to hold his end up when face to face 
with the most trying complications, and the 
strength of mind to retain for himself that calm, 
lovable disposition that had endeared him to the 
hearts of his fellow-whites. 

And the inevitable pendulum that indicated his 
strength of character pointed, in its downward 
swing, to one peculiar weakness: Varney, who de¬ 
spised all other forms of personal adornment, had 
from time to time solicited the aid of the most 
skilled tattooer on the island, one Zara-Khan, and, 
excepting for a space the size of a dinner-plate on 
his broad chest with a corresponding vacancy be¬ 
tween his shoulders, his body was covered with the 
grim masterpieces of Zara-Khan until it resembled 
a complete natural history museum. The artistry 
of Zara-Khan was not without its merits, and 
young new-comers from the West would drop in to 
see Varney and admire the many-headed dragon 
that encircled his left forearm or the accurately 
colored tiger that crouched between his left elbow 
and his wrist. If the trader was in a good mood it 
was not unusual for him to shave the hairs away 
so that his young admirers might obtain an un¬ 
restricted view. 


THE TATTOOED TRADER 


207 


Before the cyclone came, Varney had been worry¬ 
ing over those two blank spaces. Zara-Khan—a 
tall, slim, brown-skinned scoundrel, with an in¬ 
gratiating smile, a gaudy turban, and a suit of 
white ducks—had looked in on one of his periodi¬ 
cal visits to Varney’s area. He had passed on to 
a neighboring rubber estate, hoping on the return 
journey to find his lucrative client less exercised 
in mind. The trader felt torn between two strong 
desires, to give Zara-Khan’s vivid imagination full 
rein, and, so to speak, complete the set, or to post¬ 
pone the operation entirely. For it had dawned 
on him that the completion of such a life-work 
would leave him without further interest, there be¬ 
ing always the additional corollary that the artist 
might expire in the meantime and leave the ques¬ 
tion of filling in those spaces permanently un¬ 
settled. 

It was while he was still in a chronic state of in¬ 
decision upon this very vital matter that the storm 
had burst. It had happened with surprising sud¬ 
denness. Coming swiftly on the heels of a perfect 
tropic afternoon, the storm-fiend had spread its 
cloak over the entire heavens; a few heavy drops 
had pattered upon the parched earth, and then the 
wind, sweeping across the landscape like a giant 
hand, missing some things entirely and completely 
obliterating others, had blown its momentary, 
chaotic course. 


208 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


It seemed that nothing short of a miracle could 
have spared Varney’s house, but, as luck would 
have it, the frenzy of the gale had merely lifted the 
sago-thatch until it stood on end, allowing the en¬ 
suing deluge to pour in; had deposited Varney’s 
dog in the river a hundred or so yards away, and 
left half the crockery in the bungalow intact. The 
more sheltered buildings—offices, clerks’ quarters, 
store houses, and the like—had crumpled like a 
pack of cards. Whole slices had been torn from 
the stunted jungle, and the river now ran faster 
and vellower than ever between decimated ham- 
lets, bearing with it a massed collection of in¬ 
describable debris. 

Chang, the dog, had crawled back to the veranda, 
wounded only in feelings, and crouched in a corner 
over a chunk of raw meat pillaged from a ruined 
store, casting reproachful glances at his master. 
Varney, returned from a preliminary investigation 
of damage, was greeting the imminent fall of 
darkness through a tumbler of amber fluid wherein 
countless silver bubbles scurried merrily upward. 
A half-dazed Chinese boy, bare to the waist, en¬ 
deavored from a complete packet of matches to 
discover one that would serve to ignite the wick of 
the oil-lamp. Something sputtered feebly, then 
leaped into flame, and the servant emitted a grunt 
of satisfaction. He hung the lamp on a hook 
screwed into a beam, and at that moment night cast 


THE TATTOOED TRADER 209 

its impenetrable mantle over a gray and desolate 
world. 

“Hot water, tuan?” 

Varney nodded. So fixed and unalterable were 
his personal habits that he would go on indulging 
in a hot bath before dinner until the crack of doom. 
The Chinaman shuffled beyond the rays of the 
lamp; the dog growled with sudden fierceness and 
bounded toward the entrance, where the trader in¬ 
tercepted it skilfully; and, as if tossed by an unseen 
hand over the veranda-rail, a piece of pasteboard 
fluttered through the cloud of humming insects 
that encircled the lamp and came to rest on the 
sodden boards almost at Varney’s feet. 

“Lie down, Chang,” he commanded quietly, and 
the beast retreated to its corner still growling. 

Varney raised his voice. 

“Who is it? Is any one out there?” 

No answer coming in response to his challenge, 
he called over his shoulder to the boy. 

“Chong-Hee! Come here! Go down and see 
who’s prowling around outside.” 

He stooped and picked up the card. It was as 
long as his middle finger, a narrow, flexible thing 
with rounded corners. He turned it over curi¬ 
ously between his fingers—then started back in 
horrified amazement. 

“The Yellow Seven!” 

A second later he was turning over a jumbled 


210 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


heap of moist documents, searching for the cir¬ 
cular he had received only two days before from the 
commissioner of police at Jesselton, a kind of for¬ 
mal warning that the Yellow Seven was the grim 
sign employed by a powerful and exceedingly ac¬ 
tive secret organization, and that its receipt signi¬ 
fied a warning of death! 

He hooked forward a chair, and, pouring himself 
out a generous helping from the square bottle, ex¬ 
amined the document and the card in turn. 

The former was clear enough, if somewhat for¬ 
mally worded; the latter answered the description 
contained in the letter so accurately that a second 
glance left no room for doubt in the trader’s per¬ 
plexed mind. 

Presently he folded the document carefully over 
the pasteboard and, thrusting both into a tunic- 
pocket, leaned back in his chair. 

“Now, what in the name of everything have I 
done?” he demanded of the boarded ceiling. 

He passed his fingers thoughtfully over his chin. 
At first sight he was inclined to treat the whole 
matter as a practical joke, until he remembered 
that it was scarcely the weather for that sort of 
thing. It was difficult to imagine the warped 
sense of humor that would prompt anybody to 
visit his storm-shattered area to bestow upon him 
a faked yellow seven. It was equally difficult to 
discover in what possible way he, a finished diplo- 


THE TATTOOED TRADER 


211 


mat among natives, had managed to bring upon 
his ears the wrath of an Oriental secret society. 

It was fully ten minutes before Chong-Hee re¬ 
turned. He stood on the threshold, shivering like 
a man with the ague, and Varney beckoned him to 
approach. 

“Who was it?” he inquired in Malay. 

“I don’t know, tuan .” 

“But you saw somebody out there?” 

The servant hesitated. 

“Chong-Hee,” reiterated Varney sternly, “tell 
me who you saw.” 

“I saw nobody, great tuan, but I heard the voice 
of a spirit.” 

The trader started. 

“The voice of a spirit?” he echoed. 

“Yah, tuan. It was a powerful spirit, fqr its 
words rose above the wind in the trees and the 
flowing of the river.” 

Varney came slowly to his feet, and there was a 
queer light in his eyes. 

“It was an exceedingly clever spirit, too,” he 
insisted, nodding his head, “for I assume it spoke 
in the Hakka dialect—and had no difficulty in 
interpreting your answers!” 

Chong-Hee looked from his toes to Varney and 
back to his toes again. 

“It spoke to me and I answered; and presently 
the spirit spoke once more.” 


212 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“All!” The trader set his back firmly against 
the wall and stuck both hands into his pockets, 
“And the spirit said?” 

“I have come with a message for the white man 
who lives on the hill and who—up to a point— 
is good.” 

“Extremely kind of him, I’m sure! He also left 
his visiting-card, by the bye. Go on!” 

“He spoke also of another white man, tuan, one 
whom the natives have called He Who Sees in the 
Dark, who is evil and the spirit would seek to 
destroy. This is the message the spirit gave to 
me: Tell the white lord that should he continue 
to live as he has lived, all will be well; but should 
he receive this other white man into his house or 
seek to help him, all will be ill.” 

“I see,” said Varney. “In other words, your 
friend has a pretty good notion in his head that 
this white man intends coming here and hopes, 
if I agree to chase him back into the open, to have 
a prolonged opportunity of slitting his throat I 
Was that all ? ? 

“All, tuan” 

“Bi-la, Chong-Hee! You can clear out.” 

The servant edged toward the passage-way, his 
dark eyes glued all the while on his employer’s 
face. At the opening he paused. 

“The great ftuan will be wise,” he blurted out 
suddenly, clawing nervously at a pair of greasy 


THE TATTOOED TRADER 


213 


trousers. He will send this white tuan away when 
he comes, lest the vengeance of the gods fall upon 
all of us at the same time. The great tuan, who 
knows everything, will not forget that the ven¬ 
geance of the gods is very terrible and that their 
hands strike from the darkness—never missing!” 

Varney felt for a cigarette. 

“I am still waiting for my hot water, Chong- 
Hee,” he said calmly, bringing the other back to 
earth. “I, who know everything, do not fear the 
gods of whom you speak, because I know them to 
be dirty, yellow-skinned blackguards like yourself, 
and that they strike from the darkness because 
they are afraid to show themselves in the light!” 

The dog growled again, then dashed into the 
night, barking. For reasons best known to him¬ 
self, Varney did not attempt to stop it. He 
turned in order to gage more easily what was going 
on outside; and Chong-Hee waited fearfully as if 
imagining that the spirit that had intrusted him 
with the message had already overheard and was 
on its way to wreak summary vengeance. 

A quick step was distinctly audible along the 
path, and the dog’s infuriated baying had turned 
into a joyous greeting that culminated in a pecul¬ 
iar squeak. A tall, slim man took the steps in 
two strides and halted on the threshold, his solar 
topi set at a jaunty angle over eyesi. that might 
have belonged to a Celestial had not the remainder 


214 THE YELLOW SEVEN 

of the new-comer’s appearance been so obviously 
British. 

Varney stared hard at the apparition, then 
hurried forward, both hands outstretched. 

“Pennington!” 

Chong-Hee still remained at the entrance to the 
passageway, a tragic, humped-up figure, every 
feature eloquent of grim foreboding. There was 
recognition written clearly in his half-closed eyes 
and a terror that even his unemotional nature 
could not successfully conceal. 

“I saw your light miles away,” laughed Pen¬ 
nington, “and made for it like a shot. It missed 
you then?” 

“By the merest stroke of luck. Beyond this, I 
have n’t a building intact. One of my clerks got 
his leg broken, and a couple of coolies ’ll have to 
be buried in the morning. Chong-Hee! Oh, there 
you are! Why the devil don’t you get a move 
on? Take Mr. Pennington’s cane and hat and 
make it bath and dinner for two. Ta/m?” 

Galvanized into sudden action, the creature 
grabbed up the articles mentioned and disappeared, 
heading for the kitchen-quarters. 

Pennington’s glance lit upon the square bottle. 

“Next to your admirable self,” he admitted, 
“there’s nothing on earth I more wanted to see 
than that! I’ve had the devil’s own time—and 
the devil’s own luck, into the bargain.” 



THE TATTOOED TRADER 


215 


“How’s that?” demanded the other, pushing for¬ 
ward a chair. 

“I have n’t seen you for months, Varney, so I 
expect you ’re wondering what particular stunt is 
interesting me at present. Not too much soda, old 
son.” He lowered his voice, “I’m trying to 
tackle the toughest proposition it’s ever been my 
luck to strike. Hewitt’s got me chasing round 
after Chai-Hung and his Yellow Seven gang.” 

Varney whistled. 

“Got your work cut out! Here’s luck!” 

“Cheerio! This afternoon—to get it off my 
chest—I was on the verge of bringing off the final 
coup. Dawson was rounding up the bunch, and 
we ’d Chai-Hung in the district officer’s bungalow, 
neatly trapped in the act of venting his hatred 
upon my fiancee, Mrs. Viney. It was a perfect 
climax to an interesting case. That confounded 
cyclone arrived just in time to spoil everything. 
It smashed Dawson’s place to match-wood. I had 
my hands full saving Mrs. Viney. It was an 
hour and a half before Dawson joined us; and I 
packed the others all off to Jesselton before going 
back to the ruins. Three of my agents and myself 
turned the bungalow inside out. We found what 
was left of Dawson’s boy, but there was n’t a 
trace of our friend Chai-Hung>—except his red 
umbrella and a battered metal tea-pot!” 

“Then you think he succeeded in getting clear?” 


216 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


Pennington produced a rubber pouch and be¬ 
gan rolling a cigarette. 

“I don’t know what to think. Still, there it is! 
The whole district was devastated for miles, and 
I’d no particular desire to spend the night there. 
All I can say is that, by every rule of the game, 
the arch-bandit ought to be dead. Any ordinary 
human being would have snuffed it.” 

“I rather gather,” said Varney slowly, “that 
Cliai-Hung is a little out of the ordinary.” 

Pennington clasped both hands over his knee 
and looked hard at the wall. 

“He is,” he admitted. “There’s something 
horribly uncanny about that merchant, and I only 
hope the commissioner realizes it as much as I do. 
The trouble of the whole affair, as far as I am 
concerned, is this: I’d made up my mind not to 
marry Monica until Chai-Hung was conclusively 
out of it; and I’m not in the habit of changing 
my mind. Quite apart from that, I’d contracted 
to obtain the bandit’s body, dead or alive.” 

“How long a time would you consider sufficient 
to presume him dead?” 

Pennington grinned. 

“Not long,” he announced more cheerfully. 
“You see, Chai-Hung, to give the devil his due, has 
a decided sense of humor; not the refined, harmless 
article that you or I lay claim to, I admit, but 
still a sense of humor! I flatter myself that I 


THE TATTOOED TRADER 


217 


know enough of the gentleman to be certain that 
he won't be able to resist for long the desire to 
let me know that he’s eluded me.” 

Varney lifted the siphon from the table and 
thoughtfully sprayed a large spider that was in the 
act of crossing the floor. 

“By the bye,” he said, “you did n’t by any chance 
tell anybody you were coming here?” 

“Good heavens, yes! I told Monica and the 
others my probable plans, for one thing, and, for 
another, I instructed my men to follow me on 
here if they wanted anything or gleaned anything 
of importance they thought I ought to know.” 

“That accounts for it!” 

“Accounts for what?” 

The trader dived a hand into his tunic and pro¬ 
duced Hewitt’s letter folded round the piece of 
card. 

“Here’s your evidence right enough,” he told 
him. “It floated in from the darkness barely half 
an hour ago.” 

Pennington spread the document out on the 
table and surveyed the Yellow Seven as a man 
might survey a long-lost brother. 

“Great snakes!” he murmured presently,, look¬ 
ing up into the other’s eyes. “I fancy it was meant 
for me, all right!” 

Varney appeared relieved. 

“For some things I sincerely hope you ’re right,” 




218 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


he returned. “You must remember I have to work 
here. I can’t change my place of residence hourly, 
like some of you sahibs. The success of my busi¬ 
ness depends entirely upon a system of live and 
let live.” 

“Well?” 

“There happened to be a message with that bit 
of card-board. It was given to my servant, ver¬ 
bally, to the effect that if I admitted you or helped 
you in any way my number was up!” 

Pennington’s jaw dropped. 

“Have you any idea where your boy put my 
things?” 

“You’re not going!” 

Varney took his guest by both shoulders and 
forced him back into the chair. 

“Whatever damage there’s likely to be is done 
already, and if you fancy I’m going to allow a 
pack of dirty thieves to dictate to me what guests 
I entertain, you ’re very much mistaken. I 
merely told you as a matter of interest. Chai- 
Hung, it appears, is at large.” 

“Very much so! My dear old Varney, what an 
unholy mess-up! Do you realize that every 
blessed Chinaman on the island belongs to that 
gang of cutthroats? That’s exactly where Chai- 
Hung’s strength lies. However loyal an Oriental 
may be to his white master, he dare n’t refuse to 


THE TATTOOED TRADER 


219 


comply with any request the bandit may make. 
He would n’t live a week if he did.” 

“Have you dropped in to cheer me up?” 

“I’m simply trying to put you on your guard. 
What d ’you think of it?” 

“I think,” said Yarney, “that another slight 
drink and a hot bath would both go a long way 
to clear our heads.” 

As the trader reached over to take his glass, 
Pennington caught sight of the tattooed tiger. 

“I know one man, at least, who’d mourn your 
loss if Chai-Hung carried out his threat,” he said 
quietly. 

“And that is—” 

“Zara-Khan. He’d lament the loss of both a 
generous client and a walking picture-gallery of 
his art!” 

At that moment Chong-Hee appeared at the 
doorway to announce that the baths were ready. 


CHAPTER XXI 


PENNINGTON ARRANGES A FUNERAL 

I T was a mystery to most people when Pen¬ 
nington slept and where. To this particular 
fact he probably owed his reputation for see¬ 
ing in the dark, for, beyond a knack, acquired 
from his constant nocturnal wanderings, of quickly 
accustoming his eyes to the darkness, Pennington 
was no more abnormal in that respect than most 
men. But just as many venturesome spirits have 
owed their prolonged existence to a trick of pull¬ 
ing a trigger a fraction of a second sooner than 
the other man, this police officer with a roving 
commission had much reason to thank the lucky 
star that had endowed him with a rapid focus. 

The rusted hands of the veranda clock pointed 
to a little after one when Varney stretched his 
tattooed arms and yawned. 

“Time for bed, old man.” 

Pennington, who was leaning on the rail, 
glanced back over his shoulder. 

“Tired?” 

The other nodded. “Taken all round, it’s been 
rather a trying day. You won’t be in too much 

of a hurry to get away in the morning?” 

220 



ARRANGES A FUNERAL 


221 


“Can’t say. It depends on circumstances, and 
ftlr. Chai-Hung. You won’t mind if I hang about 
here for a spell. I know where to find my room.” 

Varney smiled. 

“Do just as you like, of course. I’m not going 
to suggest that you ’re feeling uneasy about recent 
events, but, in any case, Chang would raise Cain 
long before any outsider could reach the house.” 
He bent down and patted the creature’s shaggy 
head. 

Pennington held out his hand. 

“Good night, Varney. It’s done me a world of 
good seeing you so fit and flourishing. I never 
worry, it wastes so much time! But I try to 
imagine I can think better when half the world’s 
asleep.” 

He watched the broad form of his host until it 
vanished at a break in the passageway, then re¬ 
sumed his survey of a country-side bathed in the 
soft light of a tropical moon. The shattered out¬ 
buildings and gaunt trees threw grotesque shadows 
upon a yellow world, and at the foot of the hill 
ran a river of molten gold. Hoarse-voiced frogs 
croaked from the swamp-lands, and from some¬ 
where close at hand a solitary hornbill called 
mournfully. 

He stopped there, rolling and smoking inter¬ 
minable cigarettes, and each time he struck a fresh 
match the hound that was curled in a cane chair 


222 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


jerked up its head. Presently Pennington ex¬ 
tinguished the lamp. As he came back to his 
original position a sudden sound attracted his 
attention. The moon, sailing gaily toward a 
cloud-bank, threw sufficient light to enable him to 
see that Varney’s dog had not stirred. The sound 
came again, this time from the patch of blackness 
that indicated the opening to the passage. Pen¬ 
nington loosened the button of his hip-pocket and 
walked deliberately toward the patch. His keen 
ear accustomed to the slightest noise, all his senses 
alert, he gathered that some one was retreating 
softly as he advanced. He stepped backward a 
pace or two and looked at the dog. The animal 
blinked amiably up at him, squirmed into a more 
comfortable position—and resumed its slumbers. 
Pennington winked ominously at the night, lit the 
cigarette he had just made, and strode whistling to 
his room. He closed the door after him and 
turned the key. Presently he was moving about 
the room, humming softly to himself, with a 
hurricane-lamp burning merrily on a table by the 
bed. To a chance listener it would have appeared 
that He Who Sees in the Dark had at last suc¬ 
cumbed to fatigue and was in the act of undressing; 
but in reality Pennington was indulging in the 
amusing pastime of picking perfectly useless 
things up in one part of the room and putting them 
down in another. He removed his boots and, 


ARRANGES A FUNERAL 


223 


knocking out the light, stretched himself at full 
length in his clothes behind the mosquito-curtains. 
Varney’s spare room contained no window, obtain¬ 
ing its ventilation from the space between where 
the partition walls finished and the rafters began, 
and Pennington, tying the curtains at the head, 
end of the bed in a knot behind him, focused his 
eyes upon a narrow batten that served to finish 
off the rough edges of timbering of the wall im¬ 
mediately at his side. This was the wall dividing 
the room from the passage; there were two outer 
partitions that rose higher than the rest—and the 
fourth was the one that backed on the room in 
which the trader himself was sleeping. 

He had been in that position for roughly half 
an hour when he knew rather than heard that 
something was moving stealthily about the build¬ 
ing. The intruder seemed possessed of an uncanny 
knowledge of the house, for he struck against noth¬ 
ing in his wanderings, and on one occasion only 
a board creaked faintly. Presently the movement 
ceased altogether, and the man on the bed caught 
the sound of measured breathing that seemed to 
come from somewhere close at his side. Some¬ 
thing passed softly along the woodwork, strained 
upon it, scratched its surface faintly—and the 
breathing sounded more rapidly in the region of 
the roof. 

Most things are a question of habit. Happen- 




224 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


ings such as these, which might have held others 
helpless, paralyzed with fear, acted upon Chinese 
Pennington like a tonic. He was accustomed to 
dark places and risky adventurings, he had an iron 
nerve tuned up to the little practised art of wait- 
ing its time and acting neither a second before 
nor a second after. Accordingly, while a black 
shadow, the slightest degree blacker than the wall 
itself, slid slowly downward, Pennington did not 
trouble to move a muscle until its lower extremity 
came well within reach. And then—one arm shot 
out with surprising suddenness, his fingers fas¬ 
tened upon a brown ankle—and the owner of the 
limb collapsed in a heap on the floor. 

“Chong-Hee,” said Pennington softly, “I have 
been waiting for you for many hours!” 

He had slipped from the bed and was groping 
for the electric torch he habitually carried. The 
form over which he knelt moved convulsively and 
flattened out, nearly causing him to pitch forward 
upon his face. 

Pennington found the torch. The bulb dis¬ 
played a faint glimmer that dropped immediately 
into a dull red glow. He swore softly under 
his breath and, shifting his knees until they 
rested upon either arm of the Oriental, struck a 
match. 

A second later he was upon his feet tugging 
up the chimney of the hurricane-lamp. And still 



ARRANGES A FUNERAL 


225 


the form between the bed and the wall lay pre¬ 
cisely where Pennington had left it, dumb and 
motionless. The flame flickered and shot up, and 
he snapped the glass back into place. 

Chong-Hee lay spread-eagled on the wooden 
floor, an inch of steel point protruding upward 
between his shoulder-blades, impaled upon the 
knife with which he had thought to destroy the 
enemy of the Yellow Seven! 

“Hullo!” came the sleepy voice of the trader 
from the other side of the partition. “That you, 
Penn?” 

Pennington unlocked the door. 

“Come in here,” he shouted, “Eve something 
that might interest you.” 

He heard the creaking of the bed, the muttering 
of Yarney as he sought his slippers; and presently 
Varney himself appeared, rubbing his eyes. He 
blinked wearily round the room, smiled faintly at 
Pennington, and, his faculties returning to him, 
bent over Chong-Hee. 

“Dead!” 

“Quite!” 

“What on earth’s it all mean? Did you do 
it?” 

Pennington shook his head. 

“I heard him creeping about—and helped him 
down the partition. He must have fallen on his 
own knife.” 


226 THE YELLOW SEVEN 

“Good Lord! I heard nothing. Did n’t the dog 
bark?” 

“You could hardly expect it to. It knew Cliong- 

Hee.” 

“No. I suppose not.” He stared at the other. 
“Pretty good start, isn’t it?” 

Pennington grinned. 

“The Yellow Seven don’t waste much time. On 
the whole, I’m not sorry you’ve seen this. It 
corroborates what I told you.” 

The hound had crept into the room and was 
sniffing at the corpse suspiciously. 

“What do you advise me to do?” asked Varney. 

“Take reasonable precautions, and don’t go 
about unarmed. You ’ll be in need of a new serv¬ 
ant. I ’ll dig out one for you in the morning— 
one of my own men. You ’ll find him perfectly 
reliable though a trifle unsightly.” 

The trader produced a pipe from his dressing- 
gown and a small bag of Dutch tobacco. 

“We’d better get out of this. It ’ll be health¬ 
ier on the veranda. What’s wrong with your 
man?” 

“Chai-Hung carved his face up a bit when they 
last encountered one another. He left him with 
one eye and one ear—and his mouth’s a deal 
wider than it ought to be. But that sort of thing 
does n’t damp his ardor.” 

Varney shuddered. 


ARRANGES A FUNERAL 


227 


“What is he?” 

“A half-caste of sorts. Calls himself Rabat- 
Pilai. Claims to have qualified in some remote 
quarter of the globe as an apothecary. Anyhow, 
he’s the man for you at the moment, and it ’ll suit 
my purpose to keep him here.” 

“It ’s mighty good of you.” 

“Not at all. By the bye, d’ you mind leaving the 
obsequies of the late Chong-Hee to his successor? 
I want to give him rather an elaborate funeral. 
He does n’t in the least deserve it, I ’ll admit, but 
it’s just at this moment occurred to me that an 
opportunity has arisen to enable me to practise 
a slight deception upon our friend Chai-Hung. 
You see, he once hoodwinked me much in the same 
manner: got himself buried, and cremated, of all 
things! Sent me the ashes into the bargain! 
The poison he inserted in the knob of the urn 
would have done credit to a Borgia. I did n’t 
buy it, I may as well inform you—or I should n’t 
be here now.” 

Yarney hooked down the lamp. 

“You want him to be buried as yourself?” 

“Precisely. Select a nice, comfy little spot 
under the palm-trees—and get one of your skilled 
men to paint a board with my name. You can 
borrow Dawson’s bugler to blow ‘The Last Post’ 
if you like. It ’ll cheer poor old Chai-Hung no 
end! Will you do it?” 


228 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“Certainly.” 

“Good man! Now I ’ll clear out so’s not to 
spoil the effect, and I fancy I can guarantee that 
Rabat-Pilai and a few of my things to aid to the 
realism of the affair will be with you inside an 
hour.” 


V 


CHAPTER XXII 


THE PASSING OF ZARA-KHAN 


Z ARA-KHAN,” said Varney, removing his 
singlet, “I We come to the conclusion 
you’d better finish the job while you ? re 
here.” 

The man in the turban of red and gold bowed. 
“Very good, sah. What you want me to do? 
An elephant with howdah and a tigress clinging 
to trunk would be good.” 

“I We got a tiger already,” said the trader, sur¬ 
veying his arm. 

“A leopard with spots,” suggested the prince of 
tattooers, shifting a fat Egyptian cigarette to the 
corner of his mouth. “It would make a nice pic¬ 
ture. I made one like that once for the rajah—” 
He broke off suddenly, and the cigarette fell 
from his lips. He was staring at the door which 
led from the veranda. Varney, following the 
direction of his gaze, saw the figure of an Oriental 
of enormous girth framed in the doorway. The 
new-comer wore a white tunic, buttoned up to the 
neck, across which stretched the massive links of 
a gold chain. His legs were incased in baggy 

229 


230 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


trousers of black silk that rustled in the breeze, 
and the third finger of his left hand displayed a 
ring set with a large green stone. 

“I trust I am not intruding, gentlemen!” 

The trader observed him coldly. 

“Who are you?” he demanded, reaching at the 
same time for his tunic. 

“Chai-Hung,” said the other simply. 

Rabat-Pilai, who w^as in the act of entering by 
the opposite door, dropped the jug of water he had 
been carrying and fled. 

“Chat-Hung?” 

“Most certainly! Why not, Mr. Varney? If 
you are still inclined to doubt my word, Mr. Zara- 
Khan will enlighten you.” 

Varney’s hand swung round to the back, but be¬ 
fore his fingers could close on the w T eapon he 
sought, he found himself looking down the barrel 
of Chai-Hung’s automatic. 

“Pray be seated, both of you. I was afraid you 
might be—a little nervous at my unexpected ar¬ 
rival, and so took the precaution of bringing this. 
May I?” 

He drew forward a chair and lowered himself 
into it, never for one moment removing his eyes 
from those of the trader. 

“I understand that you buried Mr. Pennington 
this morning. A very lamentable affair! I was 
sorry not to be able to present myself. I fancy 


THE PASSING OF ZARA-KHAN 231 


I shall notice his absence more than most of you! 
I assume that is why the veranda-blinds are still 
drawn!” 

Varney moved restlessly. 

“I suppose I have to thank you for the loss of 
my dog,” he said. 

The Oriental patted the hand that held the pistol 
with the fingers of the other. 

“A double tragedy, if I may say so! I under¬ 
stand the dog is the friend of man; and you, poor 
fellow, have sustained the loss of two good friends 
at one and the same time.” 

“You devil!” 

Chai-Hung blinked amiably. 

“Thank you, Mr. Varney. May I request Zara- 
Khan to continue with his work? An elephant 
with a leopard clinging to its trunk! Now, if I 
might be allowed to suggest—” 

Varney choked. 

“Look here, Chai-Hung, or whatever your name 
is, I’m not in a mood to sit here and be ordered 
about by you. Understand that! If you *ve come 
here to shoot me, carry on with it. If not, clear 
out, and be damned to you.” 

“My dear Mr. Varney!” protested the brigand 
with well assumed surprise, “you will, I hope, do 
me the honor to remember that up to the present I 
have requested you to do nothing. My suggestion 
was merely that Zara-Khan should proceed with 


232 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


the work that my unfortunate entry interrupted. 
I make it a point never to interrupt. It was you 
w 7 ho first mentioned shooting, and I believe I am 
right in saying that you were about to draw on 
me when I came in. A distinctly unwise move on 
your part, Mr. Varney, when one remembers that 
Chai-Hung never travels about alone. If I wanted 
to kill you, my friend, there are twenty others out¬ 
side waiting to help me. You received a message 
from me the other day?” 

The trader shrugged his shoulders. 

“A yellow card fluttered on to the veranda, if 
that’s what you mean.” 

An ugly light had crept into the Oriental’s eyes. 

As if by a given signal, two forms slid through 
the doorway behind Varney and secured his arms. 

Chai-Hung rose to his feet. 

“Zara-Khan,” he said hoarsely. “You will pre¬ 
pare your things and tattoo the Englishman. It 
will be a little out of your line, I must tell you, 
for you will not be paid for your w T ork—and the 
picture will not be quite the same!” 

The man in the turban had changed visibly from 
brown to gray, and his teeth chattered. He stared 
from Chai-Hung to Varney, now roped securely to 
his chair, and presently his horror-stricken eyes 
traveled back to the blue barrel. 

“I am waiting for you to begin, Zara-Khan.” 


THE PASSING OF ZAKA-KHAN 233 


And Zara-Khan turned with shaking fingers to 
his tray. 

Chinese Pennington, summoned in hot haste by 
his henchman, arrived at the foot of Varney’s steps 
a bare hundred yards behind Rabat-Pilai. He 
took the flight at a bound, and, pistol in hand, 
made headlong for the trader’s living-room. 

As he hung open the door, a scene of utter chaos 
met his eyes. The door at the far end of the room 
was wide open. Between this and where he stood 
a table had been overturned, from behind which 
trickled a steady, dark stream. The chimney of 
the swinging lamp was shattered, and the atmos¬ 
phere was thick with smoke and soot. One win¬ 
dow had been wrenched clean from its fastenings, 
and the bookcase in the corner had fallen for¬ 
ward, arrested halfway by a chair, and had tipped 
its contents into a jumbled heap. 

He pushed the table back into place and recoiled 
in horror. 

A man in a turban of red and gold lay full on 
his face, pinned down by a knife of amazing length. 
Beneath him, lashed to a chair, lay a second form 
that kicked and rocked to and fro in impotent fury. 

Pennington lifted Zara-Khan to one side. 

“Varney!” 

“Oh, it’s me all right!” growled the other. 


234 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“Your men arrived just in time to prevent Mr. 
Chai-Hung making sure his knife settled both of 
us! For the love of Mike, cut these confounded 
strings.” 

“Where’s Rabat-Pilai?” asked Pennington, open¬ 
ing his knife. 

For the first time Varney smiled. 

“Dashed good man that! He got here before 
Chai-Hung could round on him—and severed his 
pistol-hand with one blow from a perfectly ghastly- 
looking weapon.” 

“Severed Chai-Hung’s hand!” 

“The one with the ring on it. I suppose he ’s off 
after him, trying to get the rest!” 

As Pennington stooped to cut the ropes, his eye 
fell upon the trader’s bare chest. 

Tattooed with hideous accuracy in the space that 
Varney had summoned Zara-Khan to fill was the 
grim sign of the Yellow Seven. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


THE MAN WHO KNEW HOW 

I T was on one of those gray, close, unhealthy 
days that Major Armitage came to Jesselton, 
B. N. B. 

He stood in a commanding position in the 
center of the first-class deck of the little Barudu, 
moored alongside the white jetty—a tall figure 
with aristocratic stoop and a monocle that de¬ 
lighted all native beholders. Hewitt observed him 
through his binoculars from the veranda of his 
bungalow; the new-comer appeared to be giving 
orders to everybody within hearing. 

“Jack,” called Monica from her chair, “who is 
it?” 

Her brother glanced back. 

“You ? re merely guessing,” he retortfed. “You 
could n’t possibly see from where you are.” 

“I can. Would you like me to prove it? A 
long, lean, stoopy man with a funny pugaree and 
red tabs.” 

“And there you are!” interpolated Chinese 
Pennington through the office window. “Monica 
has the eye of an ’awk, If any lady or gentleman 

235 


236 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


would be good enough to lend her a handkerchief, 
she will tell us what the worthy gentleman has 
marked on his—” 

“Peter !” 

“—pocketbook,” concluded the man with the 
Chinese eyes innocently. What did you suppose I 
w r as going to say?” 

“Stop that fooling,” broke in the commissioner, 
“and tell me who the devil it is. He ’s either 
thunderin’ important—or else he imagines he is. 
I suppose one of us ought to have been there to 
meet him. Ah! He seems to have settled the 
luggage question at last.” 

Pennington climbed through the window and 
took the glasses from the other’s hand. Monica 
gave a little impatient toss of her shock of curls, 
folded down the page of the book she had been 
reading, and joined them by the rail. 

“That’s torn it!” 

“What has?” 

Monica shook his arm. 

“Don’t be a fool, Peter. Who is it, please ?” 

“That,” said Pennington, pointing down the hill, 
is Major James Lacy Armitage—” 

“D.S.O.” murmured Monica. 

“I fancy you ’re wrong there. He has three 
ribbons, almost as broad as they are long: one is 
for going to Messina just after the earthquake, the 
second I don’t know, and the third he obtained by 



THE MAN WHO KNEW HOW 237 


giving up his seat in a bus to a Russian grand 
duchess !” 

Monica laughed. 

“Jack! order him to talk sensibly. You’re his 
superior officer, you know.” 

“The question is,” said Hewitt, “what’s his 
particular object in coming here. People don’t 
come to Borneo for no reason at all. Besides, he’s 
brought a deuce of a lot of kit. Does n’t collect 
bugs, by any chance, or orchids?” 

Pennington shook his head. 

“What’s his particular stunt?” 

“Blood and iron! Addresses a dinner-party as 
if he were back on parade with the Umpteenth 
Hussars. Armitage is one of those men who talk 
until they give him a job simply to get rid of 
him.” 

“I see,” said the commissioner, “You don’t 
happen to know, I suppose, what sort of billet 
they’ve fixed him up with this time.” 

Chinese Pennington was engaged in rolling a 
cigarette. 

“They could n’t find him a vacanc} 7 , so they made 
a job for him. He’s a sort of traveling inspector; 
pops into police headquarters and tells people how 
their places should be run.” 

“Oh !” gasj>ed Monica. “You don’t think they’ve 
sent him here to take Jack’s place?” 

“Not on your life! Armitage don’t like work. 


238 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


He’s on the cushiest thing he’s ever struck; and 
nothing short of an earthquake ’ll induce him to 
chuck it up. He ’ll inspect the barracks, parade 
all the native troops, drill them himself, nose 
into the cook-houses, waste everybody’s time—and 
write a stinking report home to England condemn¬ 
ing everything and everybody.” 

Monica Viney’s forehead wrinkled. 

“Won’t that be rather serious?” 

Pennington smiled. 

“It’d be disastrous—if anybody at home took 
Armitage seriously. The joke of the whole thing 
is that they don’t. As far as I can make out, to 
be condemned by our friend in the monocle is the 
finest recommendation for promotion and increase 
of pay a police officer can have!” 

“Appears to have a complete camping-outfit,” 
murmured Hewitt, the binoculars still glued to 
his eyes. “Now, what the deuce does he want that 
for?” 

“Ask me another,” implored Pennington, clip- 
ping off stray ends of tobacco with a rusted pair 
of nail-scissors. “Perhaps he’s heard of the wild 
man of Borneo and thinks we live in trees.” 

The commissioner roused himself with an effort, 
wound the leather sling carefully round the binoc¬ 
ulars, and consigned them to the cockroach-eaten 
case that hung from the wall. 

“And all this,” he complained, “when I’m up to 



THE MAN WHO KNEW HOW 239 


my eyes in work! Monica ’ll have to entertain 
him; that’s all.” 

“I like that!” 

“I thought you would. Reading between the 
lines, our visitor appears to be a perfectly harm¬ 
less sort of idiot, although a bit if a bore.” 

“You have to be a bore if you wear a monocle,” 
asserted Monica wisely. “It follows quite natu¬ 
rally, like baggy trousers with a set of golf-clubs. 
I warn you, Peter, that if you attempt to conspire 
with Jack to leave me alone with that man, I shall 
flirt with him outrageously.” 

“Sorry, and all that, but while the dashing major 
is explaining to you what he did when he served 
with the Nth Hussars I shall not improbably be 
wandering in the wilderness in search of Mr. Chai- 
Hung’s latest hiding-place. Seriously, old thing, 
this is no time to let the grass grow under our 
feet. True enough, our pet bandit was badly 
winged by the inimitable Rabat-Pilai, and the 
activities of the Yellow Seven have been tempo¬ 
rarily suspended; but while Chai-Hung exists 
there’s going to be trouble on this island, and it’s 
up to me to stop it.” 

“Where is Chai-Hung?” 

Chinese Pennington spread out his hands. 

“Vanished from the face of the earth, like the 
creatures of an unlovely dream. If I had the 
remotest idea where he was at this moment, I 


240 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


should n’t be cooling my heels about here, watch¬ 
ing Lacy A., who by the bye, seems to have lost 
himself hopelessly.” 

“Lost his left hand in your last stunt, did n’t 
he?” queried the commissioner. “Wherever he 
happens to be, Chai-Hung ’ll be thirsting for your 
blood.” 

A heavenly smile spread over Pennington’s boy¬ 
ish features. 

“I did n’t do it. I only wish I had. It was my 
chief of staff, Rabat-Pilai, who accomplished the 
dirty deed. He’s dried the gruesome relic over 
the fire and carries it about with him. I think 
he rather expects it to act as a compass and 
conduct him to its rightful owner.” 

“And the ring,” said Monica eagerly, “the ring 
with the green stone?” 

“He wears that. I had n’t the heart to deprive 
him of it, seeing that the bandit robbed him of an 
ear and an eye in a previous encounter.” 

Monica retreated to her chair and, folding her 
hands over one knee, gazed through palm-clad 
slopes to the ribbon-like road below. 

“I wish with all my heart you could catch him, 
Peter. I hate to think of you roaming about in 
the jungle with every Chinaman’s hand against 
you; it gets on my nerves. If ever he got you into 
his power, you would n’t have a dog’s chance.” 


THE MAN WHO KNEW HOW 


241 


“I wonder if he’s heard that I ’m still in the 
land of the living,” mused Pennington. “Did I 
ever tell you that Varney buried me with all due 
pomp and ceremony, and placed a suitable inscrip^ 
tion over my head? It’s fearfully pathetic, when 
you come to think of it. Poor old Penn, with his 
toes to the eastward and the palm-trees waving 
softly over his head!” 

Hewitt had become suddenly serious. He looked 
from his sister to the man she had promised to 
marry, and back to Pennington again. 

“Peter,” he said earnestly, “do your damndest, 
but for heaven’s sake take precautions. Chai- 
Hung’s terrible enough under ordinary circum¬ 
stances, but Chai-Hung deprived of .one hand will 
be like a wounded wasp. He ’ll put every ounce 
of venom behind his sting.” 

“I know,” returned the man with the Chinese 
eyes. He smiled across at Monica. “But he’s 
still the same delightful, yellow-skinned scoundrel 
whose habits I’ve made a life study. I came here 
to get him, and, whatever else I’ve done, I’ve kept 
him on the run. There’d have been the deuce to 
pay in Borneo if he’d been left quietly to his own 
resources. He holds the yellow seven, true enough, 
but I have the rest of the pack up my sleeve, and 
he T1 have to get up deuced early in the morning to 
catch me napping.” 


212 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“And yet,” said Monica, still unconvinced, “you 
have n’t a notion where he is now?” 

“No. I’ve a mighty large area of country to 
get over, and there are a thousand nooks and 
crannies into which a man might squeeze himself 
and not be unearthed for months; but my men are 
beating the island pretty thoroughly, and, from 
what I gathered this- morning, they’re getting 
warm.” 

“This morning! But you haven’t been out!” 

Pennington’s face wrinkled. 

“I’m going to let you into a state secret. Did 
you happen to hear a Dusun gong beating between 
nine and ten?” 

“Yes,” said the commissioner, “I had half a mind 
to send an orderly down and have it stopped. I 
only permit gong-beating in the vicinity of my 
house on feast-days and times of national rejoic¬ 
ing.” 

“That w^ould have been a pity,” returned the 
other, “because I should have lost the interesting 
portion of a most breezy despatch from the zone 
of war.” 

“I don’t believe you,” declared Monica. 

“Nevertheless, in a country where wireless te¬ 
legraphy is still in its earliest infancy, that hap¬ 
pens to be my ingenious substitute. It keeps one 
in touch.” 

Hewitt grabbed his hat from a peg. 


THE MAN WHO KNEW HOW 243 


“The worthy major has found his way to our 
slope. All things considered, it would be as well 
perhaps if I went to meet him.” 

“You don’t want me, by any chance?” inquired 
Pennington. 

“Not unless you particularly want to come.” 

“I don’t.” He waited until the commissioner 
had gained the soft earth outside, then dived for 
the passage way. “I’m off,” he added to Monica. 

“Coward!” 

“Not in the least. As a matter of fact, I once 
took a hundred dollars from our monocled friend 
at poker; and he does n’t altogether cotton to me!” 

Monica assumed an expression of well feigned 
disapproval. 

“When we ’re married,” said that charming 
widow, “there will be no playing for money.” 

“When we ’re married,” retorted her fiance, 
“there ’ll be mighty little money to play with!” 

A second later and he had disappeared alto¬ 
gether. Mrs. Yiney rose once more, and, stifling 
a yawn, came forward to greet Major James Lacy 
Armitage. 

“Major Armitage, this is my sister, Mrs. Viney. 
Monica!” He waved one hand in the air, leaving 
the rest of his sentence to be understood. 

“Delighted,” said the owner of the monocle. 

“How d’ you do?” 

“I was just saying to your brother that I’d no 


244 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


idea you were as civilized as this.” He surveyed 
the veranda furniture with the air of a subaltern 
at kit-inspection. “Very nice! Very nice indeed I 
I must congratulate you both!” 

“Won’t you sit down?” inquired Monica. “You 
must be frightfully tired. I simply loathe travel¬ 
ing, don’t you? It’s so stuffy to-day, too, and the 
flies are such a nuisance!” 

The major accepted her invitation and deposited 
himself somewhat heavily in the most comfortable 
chair within reach. 

“Flies!” He glanced fiercely round as if in 
search of something, and Hewitt pushed forward 
the cigarette-tin. “If the trouble is tackled in tne 
right way, there’s no need to have flies at all. 
There’s only one way out of it. You want to get 
those little affairs with wire cages on a wooden 
base, Hewitt. Those are the things for you. You 
stick honey in the saucer—” 

“But suppose you have n’t any honey?” said 
Monica innocently. 

The important man crimsoned and pushed his 
monocle further into his eye. 

“It’s perfectly simple. You get beer and— 
treacle—or something like that. When I was in 
the hussars, I insisted on having them in all the 
huts. I’d indent for a gross of them, if I were 
you, Hewitt.” 



THE YELLOW SEVEN 245 

“I ’ll certainly think about it,” said the com¬ 
missioner. 

A dozen chattering, perspiring coolies in mush¬ 
room hats came into view along the path. They 
moved in pairs, each couple carrying a portion of 
the new-comer’s baggage suspended from a long 
pole. 

“Where can I stow my kit?” demanded Armi 
tage, having satisfied himself that nothing was 
missing. 

“You’d like to keep it all under your eye, I sup¬ 
pose. I ’ll get my boy to see it into your room. 
Since my sister joined me from England, my en¬ 
tire menage has undergone a sort of mild revolu¬ 
tion. The spare room, in particular, has become a 
thing of beauty and a joy for ever!” 

“I hope you ’ll be with us some time,” added 
Monica, eager to satisfy her curiosity as to the 
stranger’s movements. 

The major started. 

“I?—er—I’m afraid not, Mrs. Viney. As a 
matter of fact, this is scarcely a pleasure-trip. 
I’ve been sent here on a rather important mission, 
and I don’t count on remaining in Borneo for 
more than a few days.” 

Monica shot a swift glance at her brother and 
observed the look of relief that had come suddenly 
into his face. 



246 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“Just a flying visit.” 

Armitage did not appear to Lave noticed the 
remark. He turned to the commissioner. 

“What time d’you lunch?” 

“One,” said Hewitt promptly. 

“Jack ’s a bit of an optimist,” explained the girl. 
“To tell you the real truth, we ’re hopelessly at 
the mercy of the Chinese boy. Mr. Pennington 
got him for us, principally because he’s somehow 
managed to earn the hatred of the Yellow Seven; 
and of course he feels safer under the roof of the 
commissioner of police. He ’s frightfully good at 
his work, but he hasn’t the remotest idea what 
punctuality means.” 

Armitage frowned. 

“You ’ll have to alter that, Hewitt. I should 
give him a w T eek in which to improve, and, if by 
that time there’s no sign of improvement, fire 
him right away.” 

The commissioner muttered something inaudible 
and tossed the end of his cigarette into the garden. 
He was beginning to wish Major James Lacy Armi¬ 
tage in Jericho! 

Monica, catching the light in her brother’s eye 
and scenting danger, chimed in quickly. 

“Do you golf, Major Armitage?” 

He bestowed upon her the sort of smile that is 
usually supposed to be reserved for questioning 
children. 


THE MAN WHO KNEW HOW 


247 


“My dear Mrs. Viney, golf is a very nice game in 
its way and an interesting pastime for those who 
have nothing else better to do. The man who 
carries out his duties thoroughly has no time for 
games. Which brings me back to my original 
subject. I want to get away as soon after lunch 
as possible, Hewitt. I shall need some bearers, a 
week’s rations, and a platoon or so of native in¬ 
fantry. I shall require also an interpreter with 
a thorough knowledge of Chinese, Malay, and 
English.” 

"I see,” said Hewitt. 

“There should be no difficulty.” 

“None whatever. Might I take the liberty of 
inquiring the nature of the expedition you propose 
making into my country, and why this tremendous 
haste?” 

The major hesitated and looked at Monica, who 
had already risen from her chair. 

“I ’ll see if I can hurry up that boy/’ she 
said. 

Major Armitage produced a cigar from an upper 
pocket of his tunic, bit off the end, and ignited it 
carefully. Through clouds of blue smoke he sur¬ 
veyed the palm-clad hillside, the white jetty jut¬ 
ting out into a placid bay, the clustering dwellings 
of the native fisher-folk, and the tiled roofs of the 
Chinese shops, passing from one to the other as if 
in search of inspiration. 


248 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


Presently the preposterous circle of glass fixed 
itself upon Hewitt. 

“Mrs. Viney mentioned the name of Pennington 
just now T ,” he snapped. “I suppose this fellow 's 
still on your strength, wmsting government money 
and making an infernal hash of this Yellow 
Seven business ?” 

The commissioner flushed. 

“I ? m afraid I must disagree with you/’ he said. 

“Chinese Pennington is one of the most efficient 
men it’s ever been my luck to meet. In my 
opinion, he’s achieved the impossible during the 
few months he’s been on the island.” 

Armitage had a peculiar knack of hearing only 
those people who agreed with his views. 

“I heard of this affair when I passed through 
Singapore. It did n ? t take me five minutes to see 
that the thing had been bungled, hopelessly 
bungled. I turned it over in my mind at makan, 
thought of it in bed. The way that man was mak¬ 
ing our status in the East look ridiculous simply 
ate into my nerves. I said to Trevelyan—you 
know Trevelyan, of course?—decent sort of old 
buffer, but devilish slow!—The thing can't possibly 
be allowed to go on.’ I could see for myself that 
it wanted a soldier at the head of affairs. To cut 
a long story short, I offered my services, and even¬ 
tually the offer was accepted.” 

Captain John Hewitt gasped. 


THE MAN WHO KNEW HOW 249 

“They ’ve sent you out here to rout out Chai- 
Hung?” 

“Those are my instructions.” 

The commissioner’s hand had slipped suddenly 
across his mouth, and his shoulders heaved con¬ 
vulsively. 

“Sorry!” he apologized presently. “Bit of 
’bacca went the wrong way.” With a heroic effort 
he choked down the mirth that consumed him. 
“So you ’re setting out this afternoon with, let’s 
see, a week’s rations, a platoon of native soldiers, 
and some bearers. Oh, I was forgetting the inter¬ 
preter. You ’ll scour the country, of course, until 
you knock across the bandit and—I say, is n’t a 
week’s rations cutting it a trifle fine?” 

“When you know me better,” returned the other 
with dignity, “you ’ll understand that when I’m 
on a job I go straight at it. There’s no beating 
about the bush.” 

“That’s extremely comforting! I only won¬ 
dered if you quite realized that the area of Borneo 
is roughly two hundred and ninety thousand 
square miles.” 

Major Armitage waved his cigar in the air. 

“Naturally, I’m relying on you to give me every 
possible assistance. I have a letter in my 
despatch-case to that effect from Trevelyan. I 
shall want a pushing-off point, so to speak.” 

“Such as—” 


250 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“The exact spot where your pet bandit was last 
located. A list of his places of refuge would be 
of service and a rough memorandum as to his ap¬ 
pearance, personal habits, et cetera.” 

“You can have a photograph, if you like, together 
with a copy of the circular I sent round to all 
white settlers. There’s a slight amendment, by 
the way. Chai-Hung’s lost his left hand during 
the last few days. One of Pennington’s men cut 
it off.” Hewitt gazed for some seconds at his own 
outspread fingers, then looked full at his guest. 
“There are one or two things that it’s absolutely 
essential for you to understand. You may have a 
vast sort of general knowledge, but the Federated 
Malay States are not Borneo; and you will, I know, 
agree with me when I say that every separate state 
has its own peculiarities, peculiarities that are 
possibly not to be met with elsewhere. The tribes 
along the coast are harmless, except when sam-su 
has got to their heads; the people of the interior 
are not always so harmless. There are certain 
tribes, moreover, that employ poisoned darts as 
offensive weapons, and puff ’em with astounding 
accuracy for quite an appreciable distance. Don’t 
trust any native who carries his sword across his 
shoulder. It’s handier to hit with that way! 
Now for Chai-Hung. This gentleman was once 
the most respected Chinaman on the island. He 
enjoyed liberties only extended to white people, 


THE MAN WHO KNEW HOW 251 


and he would still be enjoying them if it had n’t 
been for young Pennington. Chai-Hung is a big, 
fat Oriental, speaking perfect English with a 
fairly guttural accent. He is unscrupulous, merci¬ 
less, and has a distinct aversion to Britishers. 
His sign is a yellow Chinese playing-card with 
seven black dots upon it, and he dishes these out as 
a warning of death or an indication that the 
assassination of a victim was carried out by the 
Yellow Seven. With scarcely an exception every 
Chinaman on the archipelago is either directly in 
league with Chai-Hung or indirectly influenced by 
him. Imagine what that means! It means that 
any undertaking against the bandit must be 
carried out with the utmost precaution and 
secrecy. I sent for Pennington to tackle the job 
because of his experience, his knowledge of dia¬ 
lects—and his eyes. He has a variety of effective 
disguises, and I assure you, Major Armitage, 
Chinese Pennington can pass among Chinamen as 
a Chinaman.” 

The other pressed the tips of his fingers together 
in front of him. 

“All exceedingly interesting, Hewitt, I must 
admit, but, if I may say so, a little far fetched. 
Reading between the lines, you ’re all scared to 
death of this Chai-Hung fellow because you have 
every new outrage fresh on your memory. Your 
perspective’s warped. The thing wants looking at 


252 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


through new eyes. You mentioned the area of 
Borneo just now. That has very little bearing on 
the present question, because more than half the 
place is under Dutch management, and the Yellow 
Seven confine their activities to British North 
Borneo, the area of which, if considerable, is cer¬ 
tainly not vast/’ He emitted a little self-satisfied 
chuckle. “I can fully understand your feelings, 
and sympathize with ’em into the bargain. You 
don’t like my being here: of course you don’t; it’s 
only natural. All men with fixed stations object 
to free-lances butting in and carrying oft the 
laurels.” 

“If you can collar Chai-Hung,” returned the 
commissioner, “you ’re perfectly welcome to any 
laurels there may be floatin’ around. But—” he 
shook his head sadly—“you ’re going the wrong 
way to work, believe me.” 

“That’s what you think!” 

“I happen to know Chai-Hung,” said Hewitt 
quietly. 

Five minutes later, when the illustrious major 
had retired to the spare room, the head of Chinese 
Pennington was thrust through the office window r , 
followed almost immediately by that of Monica. 

Pennington had a silver Malay dollar screwed 
into one eye. 

“The whole affair’s been bungled, hopelessly 
bungled!” he mimicked. “Oh, I say, Jack, isn’t 


THE MAN WHO KNEW HOW 253 

it perfectly priceless. Chai-Hung T1 eat him, eye¬ 
glass and all!” 

“He won’t,” retorted the commissioner, “because 
you ’re going with him!” 

“Know any more jokes like that?” 

“I’m not joking. I’m in deadly earnest. 
Where d’ you imagine I’m likely to discover an 
interpreter who speaks Chinese, Malay, and 
English, except among the Chinese population, and 
I’ve already explained to the gibbering idiot that 
no Chinaman’s to be trusted. Ring up the 
barracks, there’s a good chap, and get me Fyfe.” 

Monica caught her brother’s sleeve. 

“Are you really serious?” 

“Rather! I can’t allow Armitage to make a fool 
of himself over Chai-Hung. Penn’s got to act as 
guide, philosopher, and friend to this already mis¬ 
guided lunatic. He’s to change into suitable gear 
for the part and gently lead this disciple of blood 
and iron into all those portions of the island where 
the bandit’s least likely to be.” 

“Ye gods!” murmured Pennington. “Is this 
stunt going on indefinitely?” 

“Until he gets so confoundly fed up with the 
entire concern that he decides to chuck his hand in. 
At any rate, he ’ll be back for rations within a 
week.” 

“Before we start,” insisted the other, “there are 
just one or two points I’d like to mention. This 


254 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


Chinese interpreter of jours is going to be of the 
high-brow variety; not one of the sort, you under¬ 
stand, that squats round camp-fires with dirty 
bearers. He ’s entitled, moreover, to a tent to 
himself—and full rations.” 

Hewitt grinned. 

“I think I can manage that for you.” 

“You’ve jolly w r ell got to! You don’t imagine I 
do this sort of thing for the good of my health!” 

“You might manage to lure Lacy A. into another 
game of poker,” suggested Monica wickedly. 

Pennington shook his head. 

“It would n’t be at all in keeping with the part. 
There’s an interesting game, by the bye, with a 
black and red cube in a brass box that ought to 
prove profitable. The banker takes the losings 
and ten per cent, of all winnings.” 

“Your job’s to look after Major Armitage,” 
Hewitt reminded him. “I ’ll have lunch brought 
to your room, and you’d better be ready by two 
to move off.” 

“The two people I object to most on this earth 
are Mr. Chai-Hung and Major J. Lacy Armitage, 
and, if it so happened I had to choose between 
them, I fancy I’d plump for Chai-Hung!” 

“Hullo!” cried Monica suddenly, “the sun’s 
coming out.” 

With the sudden advent of its yellow rays, the 
entire landscape took upon itself a new complexion. 


THE MAN WHO KNEW HOW 255 


The bungalows on the hillside, the Chinese stores, 
the wooden jetty shone white, as if they had all 
been freshly painted. The ocean glittered like a 
fairy thing, and the leaves of the cocoa-palms stood 
clearly silhouetted against a sky of deepest blue. 

“If you’ve anything further you want to say to 
Peter Pennington before he transforms himself 
into Sing-Ho, you’d better get it off your chests.” 

“Good-by, old thing,” whispered Monica with a 
queer catch in her throat. “All the luck in the 
world!” 

The commissioner held out his hand. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE BANDIT STRIKES 

C HINESE PENNINGTON, not without 
misgivings, carried out his instructions 
to the letter. Although the fact had ap¬ 
parently slipped Hewitt’s memory, it 
was by no means an easy matter to avoid Chai- 
Hung’s band of brigands, because such a crowd as 
Armitage insisted on taking with him could not 
fail to attract attention. It was quite on the 
cards, therefore, that the wily Oriental should 
swiftly discover the exact significance of this new 
move and exert his best efforts to discourage any 
future adventurings of a similar nature. 

There were other difficulties that beset their 
troubled path through the stunted jungle-wastes, 
difficulties for which Armitage was directly re¬ 
sponsible and which he treated with such an air of 
fatuous unconcern that Pennington wanted to 
knock the offending monocle into the eye that it 
adorned. Together with his other faults, Major 
Lacy Armitage lacked grace. He was the exact 
opposite to that type of British officer men will 
follow to the ends of the earth, taking the smooth 

256 


THE BANDIT STRIKES 


257 


with the rough of it, recognizing errors but still 
following, drawn on by their leader’s personality 
and persistent optimism. One by one the bearers 
began to drop out, and on the morning of the 
fourth day it was apparent that two of the native 
soldiers had deserted. The bearers took their load 
of supplies with them; and the two defaulters were 
eventually tracked to a clearing, where they lay 
side by side, their throats slit from ear to ear, and 
the sign of the Yellow Seven pinned to their 
breasts. 

It stands to Armitage’s credit that he did not 
turn a hair. The discovery had, as a matter of 
fact, the opposite effect to that which Pennington 
had imagined. It merely whetted the other’s 
appetite and encouraged him to push forward, un¬ 
mindful of the fact that he was already four days’ 
march from his original base, with about two and 
a half days’ rations still in hand. 

He stood in the center of the clearing, rubbing 
his fat hands together and grinning like a de¬ 
lighted school-boy. 

“We ’ll get him yet, Sing-Ho,” he declared. “I 
may as well inform you, now we ’re on the subject, 
that up to this moment I’d regarded you as an un¬ 
holy fraud.” 

The interpreter evinced considerable surprise. 

“A fraud, tuant” he echoed blankly, suppress¬ 
ing a desire to laugh in Armitage’s face. 


258 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“I’m not a man accustomed to making mistakes. 
I don’t get an idea into my head without there 
being some excellent reason for its being there, and, 
once there, it usually sticks. It has been gradually 
dawning upon me that you were out to earn your 
money easily: you never intended to encounter this 
countryman of yours, and you had fully made up 
your mind to profit by my unfortunate ignorance 
of local languages. I did n’t altogether like the 
way you tackled the chiefs of the villages through 
which we passed. In a word, there was far too 
much familiarity and far too little information. 
I’m telling you all this, you understand, because 
even now I’m not altogether satisfied that you ’re 
playing straight. I have a habit of thoroughly in¬ 
specting the camp before turning in. On three 
occasions recently I’ve found your tent empty at 
night. I want you to understand that transgres¬ 
sions such as these don’t pass unnoticed. I expect 
everybody to remain in their quarters after 
‘Lights Out,’ and I’ve instructed the sentries to 
shoot without question at anybody who is found 
prowling around after dark. So much for that! 
Our next move is to get on the track of Chai-Hung 
with the least possible delay. As far as I can 
judge, these men have been murdered within the 
last two hours. Don’t stand there wasting time. 
Get half a dozen picked men scouting for traces 


THE BANDIT STRIKES 


259 


of the assassins, and report to me as soon as any¬ 
thing definite transpires.” 

“Very good, tuan. And you—” 

“I shall remain here.” 

There was a fallen tree-trunk at the edge of the 
clearing farthest from the squatting bearers, and 
Major Armitage settled himself down at the end 
that appeared to offer the most shade. The inter¬ 
preter glanced back over his shoulder twice as he 
crossed to the men, but the apostle of blood and 
iron was pressing tobacco from an oil-skin pouch 
into an exceedingly new-looking brier and did not 
look up. 

Pennington was frankly puzzled and not a little 
perturbed as to the uncomfortable proximity of 
the agents of Chai-Hung. It was one thing track¬ 
ing down a bandit by his own methods, and quite 
another scouring the country at the heels of so 
unreasonable a leader as Armitage. He fully 
understood, moreover, the grim significance of 
their discovery. The Yellow Seven were swarming 
somewhere close at hand, taking advantage of the 
shelter the jungle offered and picking off those 
who lagged behind. By this method and at no cost 
to themselves they were reducing the strength of 
Armitage’s force, and, when they had made suf¬ 
ficiently certain of meeting little resistance, would 
swoop upon the expedition like vultures. 


260 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


Taking with him a native sergeant, he embarked: 
upon a vaghe reconnaisance, nominally seeking 
traces of the murderers of the two men, but ac¬ 
tually taking advantage of this temporary absence 
from his chief to think things out. They were re¬ 
turning an hour or two later through a narrow 
defile between rocky banks half hidden by ferns 
when a figure appeared on the path not ten yards 
in front of them. Pennington’s hand swung round 
to his hip-pocket, but Sergeant Danudin caught 
his arm. 

“Bi-la, tuanl It is Rabat-Pilai.” 

Pennington stopped dead in his tracks. The 
new-comer was he to whom the man with the 
Chinese eyes was wont to refer as his chief of staff: 
a short, lithe individual with an eye and an ear 
missing and his mouth slit on either side to give 
the impression that he was perpetually grinning. 

“What is it, Rabat-Pilai?” 

The creature saluted respectfully as he came up. 

“Great tuan, I have followed Chai-Hung to this 
place. He has many of his men with him; and he 
has taken the white soldier with the glass eye.” 

Pennington started. The thing seemed incredi¬ 
ble. 

“You are sure of this?” he demanded. 

“Perfectly, tuan. I came from the direction of 
the tuan-besar Varney’s house, which is by the 
river, because of something that a man had told 


THE BANDIT STRIKES 


261 


me. I found the soldiers and the men who carried 
the barang; after that I saw the white lord, who 
was sitting on a tree. I did not enter the clear¬ 
ing, but skirted by way of the forest; and the thing 
happened as I passed. A man dressed just as you 
are dressed spoke to the soldiers, who followed him 
presently into the jungle. The white lord had 
fallen asleep with his head in his hands; and Chai- 
Hung came softly.” 

“How long ago was this?” 

“Ten minutes, perhaps; not more.” 

Pennington’s eyes blazed. 

“Sergeant Dandudin, round up those men and 
follow. Bring all the provisions you can lay your 
hands on. What direction are they taking, Rabat?” 

“Due east, tuan. There are others who came 
with me who could wait at certain points until 
the soldiers found the path.” 

As Pennington followed upon the heels of Rabat- 
Pilai, he found time to be sorry for Major J. Lacy 
Armitage and the inevitable failure of his expe¬ 
dition. He was sorry, too, that the man who 
preached efficiency could not have been there at 
that moment to appreciate the caliber of the net¬ 
work he himself was fast drawing round Chai- 
Hung; little, brown, inconspicuous mortals, each 
cherishing a special hatred for their quarry and 
assisted by a jungle telegraph coded and, adapted 
by Chinese Pennington. 


262 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


They sent a small red deer with soft, inquiring 
eyes plunging headlong through the matted under¬ 
growth, and once an orang-utan swung from their 
path into the trees, hurling broken branches after 
it as it went. In the softer ground by the bed 
of a stream they came across the first clear impres¬ 
sions showing where a band of men had passed. 

At a bend in the track Rabat-Pilai touched him 
gently. 

“They are not far ahead, tuan. They are mak¬ 
ing for the house in the rocks, for Chai-Hung is 
tired—and his arm pains him.” 

“They will not have killed the white man?” 

Rabat-Pilai shook his head. 

“Not yet; or they would have left his body for 
us to find. Besides, the great Chai-Hung likes to 
play with his victims—like a cat with a bird.” 

The corners of Pennington’s mouth turned down, 
and he examined the clip of cartridges in his auto¬ 
matic. 


CHAPTER XXV 


A GAME OF CHANCE 

“Y ■ ^HE Chinese, Major Armitage, are inher¬ 
ent gamblers. There are few among ns, 
in fact, who would not easily be tempted 
to hazard their entire fortunes at a 
game of chance.” 

Chai-Hung sat bolt upright in his high-backed 
chair and smiled. 

“So I believe,” returned the Englishman coldly. 
Now that his limbs were freed he was beginning 
to get over that feeling of injured dignity that had 
accompanied his capture. “May I ask what you 
intend doing with me?” 

It was apparent that the bandit was equally 
capable of affecting deafness. 

“Hence the Yellow Seven,” he continued. “It is 
I who decide upon our victims, but the hand that 
carries out the death-penalty is rarely mine. 
The matter is decided by a form of lottery. The 
Yellow Seven is mixed up with other cards, and, 
those who at that moment form my body-guard 
draw for it in turn. The thing is done quite 
openly, and the sign of our society left pinned to 
the victim,” 


263 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


261 

The major’s throat had gone suddenly dry. 

“I—er—I have observed that, too,” he said. 

His glance dropped from the broad yellow face 
to the black sling in which the bandit’s arm re¬ 
posed. Presently it wandered round the apartment, 
taking in the severe carved blackwood furniture, 
the tasseled scrolls of parchment suspended from 
the walls, and the immense vases which by some 
extraordinary means had been transported there. 
It struck him that this was rather the habitation 
of a wealthy mandarin than that of a notorious 
cutthroat with a price upon his head. To all in¬ 
tents and purposes, he might have been invited to 
take tea, and the sentry whose back just showed 
through the open doorway would easily have 
passed for a domestic waiting to remove the tray. 

Chai-Hung began speaking again, with a gut¬ 
tural metallic harshness that jarred on Armitage. 

“Whatever my enemies may have told you, 
[Major Armitage, I am at heart a sportsman, and, 
although I must frankly confess that the insult 
to my intelligence the nature of your expedition 
against me seemed to imply offended me deeply, 
there still remains enough that is good in my na¬ 
ture to appreciate your daring.” The eyes that 
fixed themselves upon Armitage’s monocle counte¬ 
nance glowed like live coals. “I was sorely tempted 
to return insult for insult—and let you go free; 
for I do not fear you, you poor fool, nor, if this 


A GAME OF CHANCE 


265 


were my only stronghold, would I be afraid you 
could find your way here again. I was tempted, 
I repeat—until I remembered my left hand. It 
was taken from me, as you may have heard, by one 
of your agents, one Rabat-Pilai. You can hardly 
blame me, Major Armitage, if I tell you I have 
sworn an oath to sever the left hand from any 
British agent who may fall into my hands!” 

Armitage did not lack courage. He returned 
the other’s gaze with interest. 

“I see,” he said reflectively, “you propose 
turning me adrift in unknown territory—minus 
my hand! And you claim to be a sportsman! I 
tell you what we ’ll do, Mr. Chai-Hung. My 
Chinese interpreter, Sing-Ho, introduced me to a 
pleasant little game of chance, which should not 
be unknown to you. You will find it on the top of 
that cupboard where your man deposited my 
effects. I ’ll play you for my hand, Mr. Chai- 
Hung! It is the game of the little black and red 
cube and the brass box. The red shall signify my 
hand. May I trouble you for my pencil and one 
of those folded sheets of paper I carried?” 

The high-backed chair creaked as Chai-Hung’s 
back met it. 

“You are a brave man, Major Armitage, and I, 
for once, am the fool! We will play this game.” 

He touched a brass gong at his side and the at¬ 
tendant entered quietly. 


266 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“Bring me the game that you took from the 
English gentleman, the pencil and his notebook.” 

Without a tremor Armitage set the little brass 
box squarely in the center of the paper and drew 
lines from each corner of the thing to the corre¬ 
sponding corners of the sheet. Round the box itself 
he marked a square and lifted the lid to show the 
cube resting firmly in its slot in the inner portion. 
He slid back the top and turned the box over and 
over between his fingers. 

“The red will face this square,” declared Chai- 
Hung, indicating the section with a finger-nail of 
enormous length. 

Taking the cover between finger and thumb, 
Armitage lifted slowly. He paused midway, 
aware that the man who sat opposite had turned 
sharply toward the door. Suddenly the Oriental 
sprang to his feet, his whole being consumed with 
fury, and clutched with his single hand at a 
sword that hung from a gilded screen. 

“We do not continue the game, Major Armitage,” 
he hissed, “because your men are at my gates.” 
He swung the weapon aloft. “It is they you must 
thank for this!” 

Throwing all dignity to the winds, Major James 
Lacy Armitage dived under the table, and the 
blow descended upon its upper surface with 
terrific force. As Chai-Hung strove to disengage 
the weapon, a bullet shattered a mirror behind him. 


A GAME OF CHANCE 


267 


Armitage crawled from Iris refuge to find the 
room empty, the sentry gone, and the amiable fea¬ 
tures of the interpreter, Sing-Ho, regarding him 
through the window. 

Still crouching on his hands and knees, he 
blinked up at the face. 

“Sing-Ho!” 

Pennington smiled. 

“Or, in other words,” he murmured sweetly, 
“The man who is bungling this Yellow Seven affair 
hopelessly, Chinese Pennington!” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THE DANCING-GIRL 


D ENIS MOORHOUSE, district officer at 
Bukit-Iban, lay at full length in a long 
cane chair, innocent of cushions and 
with a decided list to starboard that at 
first sight seemed perilous. In a hole in the arm 
of the chair rested a glass, and, a few inches dis¬ 
tant from Moorhouse’s stockinged feet, reposed a 
pair of muddy riding-boots. There was a table in 
the center of the veranda littered with papers, a 
whisky-bottle, a scattered pack of playing-cards, a 
book with a stained cover, a tin of cigarettes, and a 
terra-cotta tobacco-jar. A black chow sat licking 
its fore paws at the top of the steps, pausing every 
now and then to raise its head and growl grurn- 
blingly at the slightest sound that wafted upward 
from the night-shrouded clearing. An oil-lamp, 
cradled in a wrought-iron bracket screwed into the 
wooden wall, threw a fitful, inadequate light 
through a blackened chimney, and, as if to still fur¬ 
ther limit its sphere of operation, a cloud of winged 
creatures, attracted by its rays, circled round it. 

The tropic night that had cast its impenetrable 

268 


THE DANCING GIRL 


269 


mantle over ocean and river, jungle-waste and open 
paddy-land, hung heavy and breathless, its grim 
silence unbroken save for the minor noises of lesser 
creations—the whining flight of the mosquito, the 
shrill cry of a lizard from the thatch, the distant 
croaking of bull-frogs in the sago-swamps. And, 
despite the myriad discomforts his ramshackle hab¬ 
itation offered, the unnerving stillness, the soli¬ 
tude, Denis Moorhouse, refreshed by a bath of hot 
water ladled over himself from a preposterous 
earthen-ware jar of native manufacture, felt at 
peace with all men. He was a tall, thin, amiable 
specimen of humanity with fair hair that was wear¬ 
ing thin on the crown and large, regular teeth most 
of which were visible when he smiled. Functioning 
as a magistrate on the edge of beyond, where 
ninety-nine out of a hundred men would have 
warped, become morbid, or drunk themselves into 
oblivion, this cheery philosopher had succeeded in 
steering a middle course; he was blessed with an 
extraordinary capacity for suiting himself to his 
environment, an almost childlike interest in tri¬ 
fling occurrences, and an easy, fearless bearing that 
was of far more value to him than a beltful of de¬ 
fensive weapons. Moorhouse, with his black dog 
at his heels, was as welcome in a Borneo long-house 
as in the bungalow of the commissioner of police; 
and, by sheer force of circumstance, he was far 
more often in the former than in the latter. The 


270 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


snug little coast-town with its comfortable club¬ 
house, its ever-shifting population of planters, 
government officials, and traders, its white clock- 
tower, its Chinese shops, seemed as far off to this 
dweller in the wilderness as London, Paris, or 
Vienna*. 

Under normal conditions, it might not unreason¬ 
ably be assumed that Moorhouse, reclining in 
glorious idleness after a strenuous day spent in the 
sweltering court-house, w T as dreaming of home or of 
a white girl whose photograph occupied a sole and 
prominent position on his dressing-table; but the 
girl in the ebonized frame w r as his sister, and the 
district officer had no home other than the one he 
now r occupied. As a matter of fact, he was think¬ 
ing of the dusky Dyak belle who had danced before 
the assembled chiefs in the kampon at the other 
side of the valley w T hen the rice-harvest w T as com¬ 
pleted, a shapely, alluring femaje with an inde¬ 
pendent swung of shoulders and features that 
would have done credit to a Western beauty. 
Moorhouse had been present at this dance, showing 
his white teeth wdien the young w r arriors, drunk 
with samsu, urged their water-buffaloes across the 
open wastes, and mildly applauding the crazy pos¬ 
turing of women w T ho danced with human heads. 
These latter w^ere dull, unimaginative creatures 
for th.e most part, with broad noses and thick lips, 
their stumpy bodies incased in corsets of rattan 


THE DANCING GIRL 


271 


hung with gleaming brass rings. From a jewel- 
case that must necessarily have been vast, each had 
bedecked herself with belts of silver dollars, gir¬ 
dles of silver filigree, bracelets and anklets of silver 
and ivory, ear-rings, necklaces, bells, until little of 
the wearer was visible, a fact for which the district 
officer, who cherished strong opinions with regard 
to feminine beauty, was inclined to be thankful. 

Then, just as he had made up his mind to pay 
his respects to his hosts and depart, the wonder- 
woman from the forests had whirled into the fire¬ 
light. He had sunk back on the stool that had 
been reserved for him, dropped his topi and cane to 
the earth, and gazed spellbound before him. Moor- 
house was no judge of dancing, but in the wild, bar¬ 
baric exhibition that followed he recognized origi¬ 
nality, poise—and soul; and the combination of 
these three beneath a dusky exterior worried him. 
He remembered her afterward as a vision incased 
in a sarong of shimmering green, with a bracelet of 
gold at each wrist, her dark hair secured by a dag¬ 
ger, of which both the point and the jeweled hilt 
were distinctly visible. More miraculous still, her 
hands were hidden by wonderfully fashioned gaunt¬ 
lets of silver, each wrought to resemble the form of 
the hand itself. Her dance had culminated in a 
sort of joyous stampede; she had fallen prostrate 
before the semicircle of gaping head-men, each 
watching his companions covertly, wondering if 



272 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


they, too, were meditating possession of her; then 
crawled with the lithe, sinuous movements of a 
snake toward the spot where the Englishman sat. 
Before he could forestall her, two w r arm arms had 
encircled his ankles, and lustrous, mocking eyes 
were fixed on his face. 

“Great tuan-hakim, one of these days you may 
have need of me!” 

The words flowed easily from her lips, with the 
steady conviction of a sorceress; and it was within 
the bounds of possibility that she put a spell upon 
Moorhouse, because she was gone leaving him with¬ 
out a memory of the manner of her going—and a 
golden bangle resting in the folds of his white 
tunic. And the assembled chiefs, secretly relieved 
that their domestic happiness would remain undis¬ 
turbed and that the choice had fallen to neither of 
them, had chaffed the genial magistrate unmerci¬ 
fully! He gathered a little later that her arrival 
and departure constituted as much a mystery to 
them as to himself, the natives being inclined to 
regard her as a woman from another district who, 
having inbibed more sarnsu than was good for her, 
had lost her way; but, for some reason or other, the 
district officer thought otherwise. 

In the solitude of his room he had turned that 
bangle over and over between his sun-tanned 
fingers, trying to discover some reasonable motive 
for such a gift. Her unexpected appearance, her 


THE DANCING GIRL 


273 


beauty, the abandon of the dance had succeeded in 
provoking in him more than a mild thrill. He 
remembered staring at her like a school-boy at his 
first ballet. Was it possible she had read the 
admiration in his eyes and interpreted it as in¬ 
tended for herself rather than her art? In that 
case the present was accounted for, and her part¬ 
ing shaft appeared less meaningless. There was 
one other alternative that occurred to him: that 
this alluring stranger was a party to some suit 
that was about to be put before him and that the 
gold bangle w as in the nature of a bribe! But he 
could not forget her suggestion that he would have 
need of her, not that she w r ould have need of him. 

Accordingly, with due regard to the value of the 
bracelet and to the fact that white magistrates in 
black countries are scarcely in the habit of accept¬ 
ing either gifts or bribes from fascinating dancing- 
girls, Moorhouse had established it pretty clearly 
in the local mind that the girl was to be found and 
brought to him, simply, be it understood, that he 
might have an opportunity of returning to her the 
missing property. 

This was a month ago, and still no trace had 
been found of the girl with the silver hands. But, 
although human memory is inclined to be short¬ 
lived and many events were crammed into four 
short weeks of Moorhouse’s existence, that one in¬ 
cident at the paddy-harvest kept cropping up when 


274 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


the curtain of night dropped suddenly, writing 
finis to a day of arduous toil, and the district 
officer was free to indulge in his glass of whisky at 
sundown, his long chair, his bath, and the company 
of his dog. 

The proverb to the effect that troubles never 
come singly is not infrequently a true one, but it is 
nevertheless comparatively rare for the one dis¬ 
turbance to have a direct bearing upon the other. 
As Moorhouse lay, inert, waiting for the native boy 
to announce the arrival of dinner, an orderly in 
round hat and bare feet pattered up the steps and, 
saluting respectfully, presented the district officer 
with a letter that had just arrived by a native 
runner. 

Dear Moorhouse [it ran] : More trouble for you, 
I’m afraid. The Yellow Seven business has broken 
out again, and three planters have been attacked, one 
of them fatally. Chai-Hung—the leader of the gang 
—has been traced to your area. Am sending rein¬ 
forcements. Cooperate with Dawson and do your best 
to round up. Pennington will be with you almost im¬ 
mediately. 

Hewitt. 

He rose somewhat wearily to his feet, and, cross¬ 
ing to the lamp, read the missive again. Presently 
he glanced up sharply. 

“All right!” 


THE DANCING GIRL 


275 


The orderly saluted and disappeared. 

The magistrate stubbed his toe against a corner 
of the bookcase, swore softly to himself, and 
shouted for his slippers. While awaiting the ad¬ 
vent of the boy, he dug out a photograph of the 
bandit and surveyed it curiously. 

The boy shuffled in with the slippers, but still 
Moorhouse did not stir. He was thinking of the 
Yellow Seven and the resourcefulness of its noto¬ 
rious leader. Hitherto his district had been merci¬ 
fully free from the unwelcome attentions of the or¬ 
ganization to which almost every Chinaman on the 
island belonged; but Dawson, “a steady-going old 
tile” with moments of unexpected brilliance, had 
considerable dealings with Chai-Hung, and Moor¬ 
house was asked to cooperate with Dawson. He 
turned suddenly and, thrusting a toe into each shoe, 
made a mental note to run over and see his col¬ 
league at the earliest opportunity. 

It was with mixed feelings that he sat down to 
table and dissected a helping of buffalo-meat that 
w T as both underhung and underdone. He had 
enough work on his shoulders to keep him going for 
months to come without following the will-o’-the- 
wisp that Chai-Hung, for all his bulk, succeeded in 
emulating. Besides, he had got his area into a 
state of comparative peacefulness, and shuddered 
to think what effect the presence of the executives 
of the Yellow Seven gang might have upon his 


276 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


scattered community. He was in the act of con¬ 
signing Hewitt, Dawson, Chai-Hung, and Penning¬ 
ton to the deuce when the black chow shot, barking, 
from the kitchen-quarters on to the veranda. The 
magistrate, gazing through the open doorway, 
caught a glimpse of a dark form dimly outlined 
against the blackness. He dropped his serviette 
upon the cloth and went out. 

“Tuan, will you call your dog?” 

The voice came from the stairs. 

Moorhouse took the lamp from the bracket, and, 
holding it beyond the wooden rail, peered over. 
Presently he uttered a muffled exclamation and re¬ 
placed the lamp. He whistled up the dog. 

“Come here,” he commanded; and the girl 
obeyed. 

The district officer could never explain it satis¬ 
factorily, even to himself; but he had somehow ex¬ 
pected she would come to him like this. 

“You are the girl who danced in the kampon?” 

“Yah, tuan.” 

She held herself very erect, and Moorhouse ob¬ 
served that the sarong of shimmering green had 
given place to one of terra-cotta. She leaned al¬ 
most insolently against the veranda-rail and sur¬ 
veyed the Englishman calmly. He passed her a 
cigarette and wondered where she had learned to 
light it over the chimney of a lamp. 

“What is your name?” he demanded presently. 


THE DANCING GIRL 


277 


“I have no name.” 

Moorhouse moistened his lips. 

“Where do you come from?” 

“I have no home.” 

The district officer frowned, and the girl laughed 
—a delightfully disarming laugh that almost made 
Moorhouse forget the dignity that his office de¬ 
manded. Any ordinary native who had declined 
to answer his questions satisfactorily he would 
most probably have kicked down the stairs, but the 
girl who had danced in the clearing was no ordi¬ 
nary native. He cleared his throat. 

“You have -come for your bracelet?” 

She shook her head, and the lines of her hand¬ 
some face hardened. 

“I come not for the bracelet,” she told him, “be¬ 
cause I am a child of the forests, taking when, I 
wish and giving when I desire to give, neither 
giving back nor taking back, I give to my friends, 
and take from my enemies.” 

The magistrate’s forehead wrinkled. 

“Then why have you come to me?” he inquired 
bluntly. 

“The tuan-hakim is wise,” she murmured, gazing 
down at the straw sandals tha^t protected the soles 
of her feet. 

“Admitted!” returned Moorh.ouse cheerfully. 
“What then?” 

"When I heard the music of the gongs and saw 


278 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


the smoke of the fires rising above the tallest trees, 
a voice whispered to me to go closer—and I went. 
Presently, beyond the smoke, I saw the faces of 
the chiefs. They were drunk with spirit, and the 
dancing of their women pleased them. And then 
I saw the white coat of the tuan-hakim. The beat¬ 
ing of those brass drums called me, and I danced 
for you, because I said, ‘This man is he who sits 
alone in the big house among the cocoa-palms, who 
reads the evil that is in men’s hearts and knows 
the right from the wrong, the good from the bad.’ 
You beat your hands together, tuan and I was con¬ 
tent.” She withdrew the cigarette from between 
her lips and held it at arm’s length, w T atching the 
blue smoke curling between her brown fingers. 
A dreamy note had come into her voice, and it 
sounded in the D.O.’s ears like the sound of a 
wood-pigeon from her nest. “There are times, O 
white man, when it is good to have a friend. I am 
your friend,” she concluded simply. 

And still Denis Moorhouse felt hopelessly at 
sea. Natives, as he knew them, were apt to pref¬ 
ace requests for favor with some such flowery 
rigmarole as this, puctuated with compliments. 
More often than not, these friendly overtures were 
accompanied by gifts of jungle produce, baskets of 
fruit, or sacks of cocoanuts, but never articles of 
personal adornment. It seemed that even in her 
generous impulses the girl with the silver hands 


THE DANCING GIRL 


279 


was original. He glanced back over his shoulder 
toward the liying-room and his half-finished meal, 
then drew the tumbler from the arm of his chair 
and sent the soda hissing into the amber fluid. 
All the time, while he strove to establish a mental 
balance, he felt that the girl’s eyes were fixed on 
him, and the mocking light that played in them 
made him uneasy. 

“I am a busy man,” he protested, “and I am 
tired. I do not yet understand the motive that has 
brought you here.” 

Again that intoxicating smile. 

She leaned backward over the rail so that the 
tightening folds of her sarong accentuated the 
graceful curves of her form; the garment seemed 
to have become part of her, like the plumage of a 
bird or the down of a gorgeous butterfly that 
flutters for a brief moment in the sunlight and is 
gone. Moorhouse knew that she would go, knew 
that she must go; but a strange, uncontrollable 
desire was swiftly building itself up within him to 
postpone the moment of her departure. It was 
something akin to the desire of a child, watching 
the flame of a match, unwilling to let it go, yet 
fully aware that, held too long, it would burn the 
fingers. 

“The tuan-halcim will remember that when I 
left the clearing I ran quickly into the forest. I 
had gone but a little way through the trees when 


230 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


something tripped me and I fell. One of the silver 
things that a chief had made for me slipped from 
my hand, and I looked up presently to see that a 
great orang-Ckina —a yellow man, tall and very fat 
—had picked the thing from the grass and was 
looking at it. I sprang at him like a tiger-cat, 
but a second man held my arms from behind, so 
that I could not move. There were other China¬ 
men in the jungle, for I could hear the bushes as 
they moved. The man who held the silver hand 
carried one arm in a black cloth, and his face was 
very evil. After a while he drew his arm from the 
cloth and thrust under my eyes the stump where 
a hand had been—” 

“Which hand was it?” interrupted Moorhouse 
quickly. 

“The left, tuan” 

“You are sure of this?” 

It had come back to the district officer’s memory 
that Pennington had told him how one of his men 
had severed Chai-Hung’s left hand at the wrist. 

“I have reason to be sure, because the sheath 
that I lost was from my left hand. I, who am 
afraid of nothing, feared this man. 

“ ‘Black girl,’ the orang-China said, T have more 
need of this thing than you; therefore I shall keep 
it.’ 

“I told him that there was a magic in it and 
that, without it, the other was useless, but the 


THE DANCING GIRL 281 

yellow pig only laughed in my face. Presently 
from the folds of his coat he produced a knife. 

“ ‘Bring me the head of the Englishman who sat 
in the clearing when you danced, and you shall 
have your hand/ He walked away into the trees 
and it w T as a long while before he returned. 
‘Listen/ he said again. ‘There is a white man 
whom the natives call He Who Sees in the Dark. 
He cannot be far distant, for he follows me like 
my own shadow, dressing in various manners so 
that I may not know him. Kill him, and I will 
give you hands of gold, that all other dancers may 
envy you/ ” 

The magistrate smiled grimly. He was begin¬ 
ning to see daylight. 

“The Chinaman said that, did he?” 

The girl nodded. 

“It is a difficult thing,” she added gravely, “for 
unless I kill you, I lose the silver hand for ever, 
and if I kill you I lose a friend.” 

“You will also stand a very good chance of being 
strung up by the neck for the crows to peck at! 
Did he tell you where to take the head of the white 
man?” 

“I must go to a certain man in a certain house 
where they eat opium; and he will take me with 
him to the or ang-China 

Moorhouse grunted. 

“It is not such a difficult thing, after all,” he told 


282 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


her. “One day soon, when I shall tell you, I will 
give you a parcel to take to this Chinaman. You 
will say to the men at the opium-house that the 
head of the white man is there, hut you can only 
show it to the orang-China w T ho has the silver hand. 
He will take you with him, and, at a little distance, 
T shall follow carefully. Come to me every eve¬ 
ning until that day. Goodnight!” 

She left the rail and came toward him hesitantly, 
her arms outstretched in front of her. 

“I have no home,” she said softly. “Will not 
the tuan-hakim let me stay?” 

There was a choking sensation in his throat as 
Moorhouse avoided her gaze. He shook his head. 

“It would be neither good for you nor for me, 
little Silver Hand,” he stammered. He turned ab¬ 
ruptly toward the door of the inner room to in¬ 
dicate that the palaver was at an end. He caught 
a fleeting glimpse of her in the mirror on the 
opposite wall, and he thought there were tears in 
her eyes. 

Presently something clattered to the floor; and 
the girl was gone. 

He swung slowly round on his heel and saw the 
thing that she had dropped. It was a knife with 
a long steel blade and a yellow handle ornamented 
with black dots. He stooped and recovered it; as 
he did so he recognized the grim sign of the Yellow 
Seven. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


GUAYA 

M OORHOUSE was not a little surprised 
when, emerging from his room at 
shortly after seven, he caught sight of 
a long, youthful figure comfortably 
installed in the only easy-chair the bungalow pos¬ 
sessed. A man with peculiar eyes and a shock of 
ruffled hair beamed up at him. 

“Morning, Moorhouse! Up with the lark, I 
see!” 

The D.O. laughed. 

“Hullo, Pennington! When the deuce did you 
roll up?” 

Chinese Pennington stretched himself and sat 
up. 

“Oh, somewhere in the early hours. Met your 
black chow in the garden. He was barking at the 
moon—and the few odd shouts he did on my 
account did n’t appear to make much difference. 
Intelligent animal that, Moorhouse! Did n’t take 
him more than five minutes to remember who I 
^vas. How’s things?” 

He moved his legs to one side, and the magis¬ 
trate squatted down on the foot rest. 

283 


284 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“Not too bad. I had an interesting piece of 
news last night, by the bye, that ought to help us 
no end. I’ve struck a black girl who’s promised 
to guide us to Chai-Hung.” 

Pennington pursed up his lips. 

“Women are the very deuce!” he declared. 
“I ? d like to be reasonably sure, before I embark 
upon this campaign, that your lady friend is n’t 
contemplating leading us to the devil. They not 
infrequently do!” 

The Oriental eyes that had somehow found their 
way into a purely Anglo-Saxon countenance wan¬ 
dered slowly round the walls, passing over in suc¬ 
cession the horns of a bull ke-rbau, an assortment 
of hats of woven rattan, a Chinese opium-pipe, and 
the sword of a head-hunter decorated with tufts of 
human hair. 

“I’m inclined to pin my faith on this particular 
girl,” said Moorhouse, and told him the story of 
the silver hand. 

All through the narrative the man with the 
Chinese eyes kept them fixed upon his host, at the 
same time rolling a cigarette with automatic pre¬ 
cision. 

“So that *s your heroine!” he remarked as the 
other concluded. 

The magistrate started. “Know her?” 

“I rather imagine I do. She’s a Dyak girl who 
drifted into B. N. B. from Sarawak. A rather 


GUAYA 


285 


unique character with a touch of white blood in 
her veins; afflicted with the wanderlust and 
popularly credited with a somewhat murky past. 
As far as I can remember, she had a billet once with 
the sultan of Brunei and possibly boned those 
hands from his treasure-house when he engaged 
another 'premiere danseuse ” 

“Why did he fire her?” 

“I gather she was rather a disturbing element in 
his household, with a marked leaning toward 
intrigue. Hewitt could tell you more about her 
than I can. He had her name on his books for 
some time, but decided there was a screw loose 
somewhere—and let her go. Guaya! She’s cer¬ 
tainly a remarkable woman!” 

“Guaya?” 

“That’s her name; or, rather, she says it’s her 
name.” 

Moorhouse’s jaw dropped. 

“All things considered, I suppose we ? d better 
wash her out of it altogether and try to get a 
smack at Chai-Hung through other channels?” 

Chinese Pennington sprang to his feet and be¬ 
gan pacing the veranda, his hands clasped behind 
him. 

“That depends,” he jerked out suddenly. “In 
some respects I believe her to be straight. She 
appears to have taken a fancy to your honest, open 
countenance!” 



286 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


The district officer grinned. 

“Unless there’s some obscure motive lurking be¬ 
hind it all, she certainly put her cards on the table. 
It’s a mighty good thing for us that she did!” 

Pennington halted in the center of the floor. 

“As I told you before, Moorhouse, women are 
the very devil—when they ’re as clever as Guaya 
is and have taken a rooted dislike to one. I’d 
sooner stand my chance with a herd of bison. You 
can take it from me the knife’s authentic enough. 
The only snag in the whole proceedings appears to 
be that Chai-Hung may have intended her to bring 
it here with the happy notion of enticing us into 
his clutches.” 

“We could keep our eyes open for anything in 
the nature of an ambush. Frankly, Penn, I’m 
inclined to give it a trial. For one thing, the op¬ 
portunity seems too good a one to miss; for an¬ 
other, every event in connection with her yarn fits 
in so naturally. I saw the silver hands myself. 
Chai-Hung had no reason to believe I was aware 
of his presence in my area, and he certainly would 
be the last to advertise it.” 

Pennington perched himself on the edge of the 
table. 

“Good enough!” he declared. “We ’ll make the 
experiment and rope in old Dawson into the bar¬ 
gain. Chai-Hung’s no particular friend of his, 


GUAYA 


287 


and, provided onr luck’s in, I should like him to 
be there at the death. I don’t know if the commis¬ 
sioner told you, but the bandit’s in funds at the 
moment, which makes matters a lot more difficult 
than I care about. He carried out a daylight raid 
upon the train and got clean away with roughly 
twenty thousand dollars. That ’ll give you some 
idea how his intelligence department carries out its 
work. It was about the first time on record that 
half the estate managers on the island sent down 
to draw pay at the same time.” 

Moorhouse whistled. 

“Twenty thousand dollars!” 

“Can you beat it? Half the passengers at least 
were Chai-Hung’s men. The bandit himself did n’t 
show up. His second in command, Nyi-Hau, 
deputized for him and must have qualified for an 
increase in salary! If I clip that gentleman’s 
wings I shall have rendered the island a useful 
service.” 

“Hewitt suggested reinforcements,” put in the 
D.O. “It looks as if we shall need ’em!” 

Moorhouse left the veranda five minutes later to 
complete his toilet. As he drew the comb from the 
leather case where it reposed in company with 
the brushes, his fingers touched something that 
was wound in between the teeth. He released it 
gingerly and stepped toward the open window. 


288 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


Even in the dimmer recesses of the room he had 
understood the significance of the seven black 
circles daubed upon a yellow card the size and 
shape of his forefinger! 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


THE SILVER HAND 

A T the spot where two forest tracks 
crossed, a solitary squat hut rose from 
the waist-high lalang; Pennington 
caught Moorhouse’s arm and pulled him 
down beside him. 

“Steady on, old son! Don’t take any chances. 
Chai-Hung may have a permanent outpost watch¬ 
ing the place.” 

Dawson, a short, red-faced man of uncertain age 
and inclined to stoutness, crawled up to them on 
his hands and knees. 

“Hanged if I like this game, Penn! I ’ve col¬ 
lected about as many thorns as a porcupine has 
quills. Is it really necessary?” 

Pennington smiled. 

“Absolutely. You ’ll have to tuck that sylph¬ 
like form of yours a deal closer into the under¬ 
growth. The irritating part of it is that we 
have n’t the ghost of an idea which way they ’re 
coming.” 

“Guaya’s gone in,” said Pennington cheerfully. 

“I’ve had oceans of this sort of thing. Better 

289 


290 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


make yourself as comfortable as possible, Dawson; 
it ’s quite on the cards we ’re in for a long wait.” 

“Have you any objection to our smoking?” 
queried the stout man. 

“I have.” 

Dawson shut his case with a snap and, rolling 
over upon his back, resigned himself to the in¬ 
evitable. 

A quarter of an hour later Moorhouse touched 
Pennington with his foot, and the man with the 
Chinese eyes passed the warning on a trifle more 
heavily. The girl had emerged from the hut, and, 
the bundle still under one arm, was making off in 
an easterly direction, following close upon the 
heels of an elderly Oriental in a suit of butcher’s 
blue and an enormous mushroom hat. 

Moorhouse glanced back. 

“Give ’em time,” muttered Pennington between 
his teeth. “It may be a plant.” 

To Dawson it seemed centuries before the jungle- 
expert rose to his feet and, selecting a patch of 
ground between the trees where giant ferns rose 
in rank profusion, steered a diagonal course to¬ 
ward the path their quarry had taken. 

It was comparatively cool in the forest where 
the tropic sun, filtering through the leafy screen 
above them, cast irregular lozenges of light and 
shade. Presently, as the trees grew wider apart, 


THE SILVER HAND 


291 


they stumbled on a stretch of swampdand where 
trunks, laid end to end, constituted a crazy bridge. 
Pennington negotiated this obstacle in his bare 
feet, Moorhouse sat down halfway to follow his 
example, and Dawson, relying once more upon his 
hands and knees, proceeded slowly and shamelessly 
in this fashion until the harder ground was 
reached. 

It was fully an hour before they obtained a clear 
view of the dancer and her guide; but Pennington, 
employing some instinct he had acquired in his 
wanderings, seemed to have been aware of their 
proximity for some time. They were back in the 
jungle again, in an area alive with active monkey- 
colonies, teeming with birds of vivid plumage, 
and throbbing with the united efforts of a vast 
insect creation. With startling suddenness Chi¬ 
nese Pennington dropped in his tracks and, not a 
moment too soon, his companions followed suit. 

Leaning against a tree barely a dozen yards dis¬ 
tant Moorhouse saw an enormous Oriental, nude 
from the waist upward, a formidable parang dan¬ 
gling at his side. His back was toward them, and 
the smoke of a cigarette curled upward from under 
his hat of plaited cane. Farther to his right, the 
D.O. observed a similar sentinel, and, to the left 
again, still a third, motionless as a statue. 

As they lay there, a prey to voracious ants and 


292 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


swarms of flies, a piercing scream came from the 
direction of the path, followed by a wild, hysterical 
sobbing. 

Moorhouse was up like a jack-in-the-box, but 
Pennington’s fingers, closing firmly oyer an ankle, 
pulled him down again. He turned to expostulate, 
but a hand choked his utterance. 

“Keep still, you priceless idiot!” the other 
whispered in his ear. “You can’t do any good. 
He’s waiting for us to come out and show our¬ 
selves.” 

The D.O. of Bukit-Iban, an unpleasant taste in 
his mouth, glanced appealingly at Dawson, but 
Dawson was thoughtfully examining the safety- 
catch of his automatic and did not look up. 

The screams came again, and Moorhouse jammed 
his fingers in his ears. He hardly remembered the 
details of that retreat. There was something 
about Pennington that made men follow him, or 
the magistrate would never have come at all. 

“Phew!” ejaculated Dawson as soon as they 
were back on the original track. “That was a 
trifle too near to be pleasant!” He winked at 
Pennington. “Gentlemen, you may smoke!” 

He held his case to Moorhouse, w T ho did not 
appear to notice it, and to Pennington, who shook 
his head. 

“No, thanks. I roll my own.” 

“Invariably?” 


THE SILVER HAND 


293 


“Invariably!” 

The stout man lit up cheerfully. 

“Discretion/’ he observed sententiously, “is the 
better part of valor! With a bit of luck, Moor- 
house, old son, we shall arrive at your palatial 
residence in time for a cheering cup of tea!” 

The pent-up feelings of Denis Moorhouse at 
length found utterance. 

“They were murdering that girl,” he said. 

Chinese Pennington dropped a heavy hand on 
the other’s shoulder. 

“I should make yourself quite easy on that score. 
Chai-Hung does n’t murder pretty women who are 
likely to be of service to him. Whether Miss 
Guay a was aware of it or not, the ambush we were 
within an ace of walking into had been long and 
carefully prepared.” 

“That does n’t account for the screams.” 

“Some people scream before they are hurt.” 

“I don’t quite follow you.” 

“He means to say,” put in Dawson, inhaling to¬ 
bacco-smoke with the air of a parched wanderer in 
the desert quenching his thirst, “that the bandit 
merely threatened her. He can be a mighty un¬ 
pleasant spectacle when he likes.” 

“I hope to heaven you ’re right.” 

“The more I think of it,” pursued Pennington, 
“the more feasible it seems. Guaya, you must re¬ 
member, is a consummate actress; and her efforts 


294 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


certainly struck me as being highly theatrical.” 

“Where are we now?” demanded Moorhouse 
gloomily. 

“A shade better off than when we started. W T e 
know that the Yellow Seven are here in consider¬ 
able force, and that the united efforts of three 
perfectly good white men armed with automatics 
would be about the forlornest hope ever embarked 
upon.” 

They passed through the screen of cocoa-palms 
and emerged upon the strip of grass-land in which 
Moorhouse’s bungalow lay. 

Moorhouse, hardly awake, reached down auto¬ 
matically for the blanket at the bottom of the bed. 
Suddenly, as his benumbed faculties began to re¬ 
turn to him, he started and blinked vacantly at 
the white canopy above him. Somewhere close at 
hand a dog was barking. Ten seconds later he 
had awakened to the realization that it was the 
black chow and that the sound came from the 
veranda. He sat up. A square of moonlight fell 
across the bare boards from the open casement, 
and, from a gap between the wall and the roof- 
timbers, a second patch of radiance filtered 
through the mosquito-curtains, describing a jagged 
yellow circle on the sheet. 

Except for the barking of the dog, the night 
was eerily, unusually still. The magistrate, aware 


THE SILVER HAND 


295 


of a certain dryness, shifted to one elbow with the 
intention of going in search of Pennington and 
persuading him to join him in a bottle of p’rempuan 
lager. He blinked again and remembered that 
Chinese Pennington had started out on a noctur¬ 
nal survey of Chai-Hung’s stronghold—and had 
taken Dawson with him. He glanced at the 
luminous dial of his wrist-watch, settled himself 
down upon both elbows, and tried to weigh up the 
advantages of resuming his slumbers or quenching 
his thirst. 

The black chow, never very reliable when the 
moon was at its full, was getting on Moorhouse’s 
nerves. 

“Shut up, Hitam! Lie down!” 

And then—something black and shadowy slid 
noiselessly within the rectangle of light and out 
of it again. 

The district officer, experiencing that uncomfort¬ 
able sensation that is invariably associated with a 
surprise in the early hours, forced his muscles to 
action and groped under the pillow for his auto¬ 
matic. His fingers touched nothing but the 
crumpled edge of the sheet. Always a restless 
sleeper, he had pushed his pillow, a shapeless 
mass, to one side, and the weapon had presumably 
dropped to the floor without waking him. Swear¬ 
ing softly to himself, he reached down, groping un¬ 
certainly in all directions. The flimsy curtains, 


296 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


blowing listlessly in a light breeze, touched his 
cheek, and, bringing his head suddenly upward, 
he saw—as if dangled from the bedpost—a silver 
hand. The thing hovered there, glittering in the 
patch of light, and for some moments he stared at 
it, hypnotized. He withdrew his gaze with an 
effort, a wild hope revolving in his brain. 

“Guaya!” The words formed themselves upon 
his lips. He had not seen her since that strategic 
retreat from the bandit’s sentries. Her move¬ 
ments were not unusually erratic. Perhaps she 
had sought him on the veranda, and, failing to find 
him there, had come to his room. He looked up 
again. The apparition w T as still where he had 
first seen it. He pushed himself upward on his 
arms—then sank back mute with silent horror. 
The thing was a left hand, the gantlet that Chai- 
Hung had stolen! 

He wriggled over on to his face and sent his 
trembling fingers along the rough floor. They 
knocked presently against something soft and 
w r arm—a human foot! He set his teeth grimly. 
He must somehow manage to slip out from the 
other side, between the bed and the partition, and 
snatch up the water-jug, anything with which to 
defend himself. The bed creaked as he moved, and 
the curtains parted. A lean hand fell upon each 
w r rist, and, from out of the corner of his eye, he 
saw that the silver hand had vanished. There 


THE SILVER HAND 297 

hung in its place a knife with a long thin blade and 
a hilt that he knew was yellow. 

He aimed a kick at the arm that held it sus¬ 
pended; but it moved swiftly upward, and the 
force of his blow was spent upon empty air. He 
could catch its shadowy outline as it hesitated be¬ 
fore descending, and then the door of the room 
swung open and the light of a hurricane-lamp 
illuminated the whole apartment. The grip on 
his wrists relaxed and tightened again before he 
could wrench himself free. The lamp stood un¬ 
guarded on the threshold, as if it had come there 
of its own accord, and Moorhouse recognized at 
one and the same time the man who held him and 
the creature with the knife: Nyi-Hau—and the 
great Chai-Hung! 

He struggled with renewed violence, tore one 
hand from the powerful fingers that encircled it, 
and hit out at Nyi-Hau with all the force he could 
put behind it. The man recoiled, and the magis¬ 
trate, rolling to one side, avoided the fall of the 
knife by a hair’s breadth. 

It pierced a fold of his sarang and buried it¬ 
self up to the hilt in the bedding. He caught the 
fierce intake of breath as the bandit drew it free; 
and a third form, gliding stealthily from behind 
the door, pushed between Chai-Hung and his lieu¬ 
tenant. It was Guaya! Her garment was torn 
and travel-stained, and her black hair fell in waves 


298 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


over •her dark shoulders. Her beautiful features 
wore a strange, set expression, and, for a fleeting 
second, Moorhouse remembered her as a mistress of 
intrigue and fancied she had come to gloat over 
his downfall. 

He did not understand the meaning of her dis¬ 
heveled tresses until the dagger with the jeweled 
hilt sped downward. She drove it with trium¬ 
phant force between Nyi-Hau’s shoulders; and the 
creature pitched headlong across the D.O. 

Struggling to free himself of his nauseous bur¬ 
den, Moorhouse did not see how Guaya died. He 
heard her little panting cry and threw Nyi-Hau 
from him to discover Chai-Hung forcing his great 
bulk through the window-frame, leaving his knife 
behind. 

The automatic caught his eye. He vaulted to 
the floor, and, snatching it up, emptied the entire 
clip into the tropic stillness. Presently he saw^ 
that the silver hand had escaped the fugitive and 
rolled to a corner. 

“Guaya,” he whispered softly, “I have brought 
you your hand.” 

He fell on his knees beside her, thinking she had 
fainted, but the shapely shoulders that his fingers 
touched were unresponsive. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


THE ARRIVAL OF JOCELYN GWYNNE 

E NID BROMLEY, dark, small-featured, 
and effective rather than pretty, dropped 
her racket on the grass and sank into a 
deck-chair by Hewitt’s side. 

“I ? m afraid I gave you an awful let-down in 
the last set/’ she murmured. “I ? m frightfully 
sorry.” 

Captain Hewitt smiled reassuringly. 

“Not at all,” he returned. 

“Just fancy,” put in Monica. “She says she 
has n’t touched a racket for eighteen months. I 
think she did wonders. You look tired, Mr. 
Dawson.” She smiled toward a stout, red-faced 
man who blinked amiably back at her through a 
sea of perspiration. 

“I’m not tired, Mrs. Viney,” declared the affable 
Dawson. “I’m hot!” he settled himself down 
on the turf at her feet and, lighting a cigarette, 
puffed for some moments in silence. 

Enid frowned. 

“They tell me you’ve been out here a frightful 
time. I should have thought you’d have got used 
to the heat.” 


299 


300 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


Dawson maneuvered his ample form so that it 
faced the speaker. 

“One would imagine so,” he admitted, “but 
there’s no hard and fast rule in these things. 
Chaps who pass A1 for the tropics crock up 
quickly; those who scrape through by the skin of 
their teeth thrive! Judging by the way his Ex¬ 
cellency over there keeps me trottin’ about, I ought 
to get thin, but I don’t!” 

“Rather on the contrary, in fact,” laughed 
Hewitt. “If you ’re seriously considering taking 
up tennis again, you ’ll have to order a new rig- 
out. It puzzles me how you get into them at all!” 

“Never you mind how I get into ’em,” said the 
other, joining in the general laughter. “That ’s 
my affair!” 

“Does Captain Hewitt keep you busy, Mr. Daw¬ 
son?” 

“You’d scarcely credit it, Miss Bromley, but 
I’ve been spending the best part of three weeks 
groveling on my tummy, wriggling like some jolly 
old serpent after a Chinese brigand with a fancy 
name.” 

“It sounds fearfully thrilling.” 

“It was n’t half so thrilling as it sounds! Mrs. 
Viney, the charming widow on my left, has snaffled 
the affections of the only man on the island who 
can wriggle gracefully and effectively; and that’s 


ARRIVAL OF JOCELYN GWYNNE 301 


Chinese Pennington. Yon 11 meet him one of 
these days.” 

“Did you catch your bandit?” 

Dawson had turned again and was gazing down 
the slope toward the palm-clad shores of the bay, 
where a thousand dancing ripples reflected the 
last rays of a setting sun. 

“Not altogether,” he confessed. 

Enid looked puzzled. 

“Dawson’s endeavoring to achieve the impos¬ 
sible,” broke in the commissioner. “He’s trying 
to appear deep! Taken on the whole, Borneo’s a 
nice, comfortable little place; but for some time 
past we’ve been having trouble with an Oriental 
who calls himself Chai-Hung. He’s rather a big 
man in many ways, and a trifle stouter, if any¬ 
thing, than the worthy Dawson! To all intents 
and purposes, he controls the movements of every 
Chinaman on the island.” 

“Is n’t that rather serious? I believe father 
said that all his coolies were Chinese.” 

“The majority of managers employ Chinese 
labor. There’s no actual bother, however, unless 
Chai-Hung’s in the neighborhood. The allegiance 
of the more scattered members of the organization 
is fortunately passive.” 

“Jack,” said Monica, touching her brother’s 
sleeve, “when you’ve quite finished frightening 


302 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


Miss Bromley with harrowing tales of your pet 
brigand, do you think you could muster up suf¬ 
ficient energy to order something fizzy, with ice in 
it?” 

The commissioner started to his feet. 

“By Jove! I’m fearfully sorry. Come along, 
Dawson.” 

Enid laughed. 

“Poor Mr. Dawson! I’m sure he’s far more 
comfortable where he is. Besides, it does n’t take 
two of you to order drinks, does it?” 

Dawson, straightening himself out with sur¬ 
prising suddenness, winked heavily. 

“Not to Order ’em, Miss Bromley,” he said. 

The two men mounted the wooden stairs together 
and passed through an open doorway, making their 
way toward the general room in which the bar 
was situated. 

Hewitt had just completed the order for his 
sister and Enid Bromley, and was turning in 
search of Dawson, when his eye lit upon two long 
legs protruding from the lower portion of a long 
chair. There was something about the hang of 
those limbs that struck him as being familiar. He 
crossed the intervening space on tiptoe. The 
occupant of the chair, who was in the act of rolling 
a cigarette, beamed up at him. 

“Hullo, old son! I was wondering when you 
were going to turn up.” 


ARRIVAL OF JOCELYN GWYNNE 303 


“Peter,” returned the commissioner reproach¬ 
fully. “If you have lost every shred of respect for 
regulations—and myself—you might at least have 
had the decency to report your arrival to Monica!” 

The man with the Chinese eyes remained un¬ 
moved. 

“I called at the bungalow, but your orderly in¬ 
formed me you were eating the air! I ’m ashamed 
to report that, instead of hastening in search of 
you, I had the temerity to wash, change my things, 
and shave. I came on here to find you absorbed 
in a game of tennis. I had no desire to see our fat 
friend here reduced to a state of apoplexy, so 
sought the comparative seclusion of the club-room 
and went to sleep. I awoke with the pleasant 
tinkling of glasses in my ear—” 

Hewitt ignored the hint. 

“Well?” he demanded. “What about Chai- 
Hung?” 

Pennington shrugged his shoulders and spread 
his hands like a French waiter. 

“Order me a drink, and I ’ll tell you. One look 
at Dawson, in those trousers, chasing an inoffensive 
ball, has given me the most excruciating thirst.” 

“Hullo, you old devil!” greeted Dawson, serenely 
unruffled. “I suppose you We been doing your best 
to quench it while we We been capering like roe¬ 
bucks for the express benefit of the fair sex?” 

“You ’re wrong there, Dawson. I ’ve never yet 


304 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


been able to screw up my courage to order a single 
drink. It sounds so deuced unsociable! And that 
reminds me, Jack: who’s the lady?” 

They converged around a bamboo table; and a 
Chinese ~boy, from whose shiny head the traditional 
pigtail still sprouted, set a tray in front of them. 

Hewitt rubbed his hands together. 

“What d ’you think of her? Not bad, eh?” 

“Judging by her tennis?” 

“Good Lord, no! Judging by her figure.” 

“What surprises me,” interposed Dawson, set¬ 
ting down his glass, “is the way these young 
bachelors sit up and take nourishment every time 
a fairly presentable damsel sets foot on the jetty.” 

“She’s not bad,” conceded Pennington. “Bit on 
the thin side! Reminds me somehow of the sort 
of girl who has three lines in a musical comedy. 
Not feeling smitten, I hope?” 

Hewitt changed the subject somewhat abruptly. 

“I’ve fulfilled the conditions. How’s the Yel¬ 
low Seven affair proceeding?” 

“You know we settled Nvi-Hau—the feller re¬ 
sponsible for looting the train?” 

The commissioner moved restlessly. 

“Dawson told me. I gather Moorhouse had a 
narrow squeak. Chai-Hung escaped by a window, 
and you followed. What happened then?” 

Peter Pennington crossed his legs and stared 


ARRIVAL OF JOCELYN GWYNNE 305 


pensively through the doorway at an already dark¬ 
ening landscape. 

“I set my jungle-telegraph buzzing, rounded up 
my little crowd of brown-skinned agents, and suc¬ 
ceeded in roping in the young men of a local 
village. I was rather sorry about that afterward, 
because the Yellow Seven razed it to the ground 
a week later. However, we got going and fell upon 
the bandit’s body-guard hip and thigh. Chai- 
Hung wormed his way out of the charmed circle, 
headed for the river—and left the island in a tong- 
kong, disguised as cargo of some sort or other.” 

Hewitt sprang to his feet. 

“You don’t mean to tell me he’s left Borneo?” 

The other nodded. 

“It’s even whispered that he spent a couple of 
nights at Singapore; but,” he added reassuringly, 
“he’s sneaked back again and succeeded in making 
a landing at Kudat—under the eyes of our own 
people.” 

Dawson whistled softly. 

“But why?” 

“Yes,” echoed the commissioner, “why in the 
name of everything?” 

Pennington’s fingers were moving rapidly in the 
folds of a rubber pouch. 

“I fancy the thought that I ’m still in the land 
of the living worries him. If he could only make 


306 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


certain, once and for all, that I’d snuffed it, I be¬ 
lieve he’d retire from business and leave the plea¬ 
sant occupation of plaguing harassed British 
officials to anybody else who liked to come along.” 

“Know where he is?” 

“Within limits, yes. There’s something afoot, 
however, that I don’t exactly understand. I’ve 
got a hazy notion Chai-Hung’s out for big busi¬ 
ness, and I can’t for the life of me figure what it 
is. My chief of staff, Rabat-Pilai, knocked across 
a prominent member of the Yellow Seven the night 
before last. I have n’t inquired too closely into the 
exact methods employed to extort the information, 
but the blighter went as far to admit the possibility 
of a gigantic cou'pP 

“Where is this feller now?” asked Dawson. 

A far-away expression had come into Penning¬ 
ton’s eyes. 

“It turned out that he was the man who held 
Rabat-Pilai’s arms while Chai-Hung tortured 
him.” 

Hewitt shuddered. 

“I don’t think you need tell us any more.” 

“I shall be going up-country again to-morrow. 
To tell you the truth, I’ve been having a pretty 
tough time of it. I just ached for a suit of decent 
clothes, a smell of the sea, and a look at you all. 
I’m sorry it’s proving such a confoundedly pro¬ 
longed affair; but Chai-Hung’s the very devil, and, 


ARRIVAL OF JOCELYN GWYNNE 307 


with a crowd of cutthroats such as his, it’s the 
simplest thing in the world for him to organize a 
stout resistance at one point, and vamoose by an¬ 
other.” 

The steward approached them. His tray held 
two empty glasses from which straws protruded 
—and a leaf torn from Monica’s notebook. 
Hewitt glanced at it. 

“The girls have gone on home,” he announced. 
“Dawson, old son, we ’re counting on you for 
makan. He looked at Pennington. “You ’ll dine 
with us, of course?” 

“Thanks. I’m still in ignorance as to the 
identity of your charming partner at tennis.” 

Dawson grinned. 

“For the sheer pleasure of hearing myself 
speak, I ’ll volunteer the required information. 
The lady with the blue-black tresses and busy eyes 
is a certain Enid Bromley, daughter of Chard 
Bromley, new manager of the Baniak-Baniak 
rubber estate. Sheltering himself behind the 
plausible excuse that the late manager was assassi¬ 
nated by the Yellow Seven and that the district 
w r as n’t too healthy for a white girl, our scheming 
superior has arranged for Miss Enid to occupy a 
spare room in his bungalow and keep Mrs. Viney 
company.” 

“Shut up, Dawson! The point that ought to 
interest you, Peter, is that Bromley’s London 


308 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


directors are offering a reward of a thousand 
pounds for the arrest of Chai-Hung.” 

“Are they, by Jove? A new manager at Baniak- 
Baniak, too! That accounts for the tremendous 
activity I noticed when I passed through. I ’d 
intended droppin’ in on the first assistant, but 
changed my mind at the last moment. I’d rigged 
myself up in one of my usual disguises and thought 
that, being a trifle nervy after the recent unfor¬ 
tunate occurrence, he might be tempted to shoot 
me at sight!’’ 

“What sort of activity?” 

“They ’re tackling that new area; got a crowd 
of natives hewing the forest all round them. I 
imagine they ’re anticipating indulging in a big 
burn.” 

A group of government men ushered in the fall 
of darkness, followed at intervals by club members 
of varied callings, who wafted in by twos and 
threes to swell the numbers of those who were al¬ 
ready in occupation. Planters in Perak topis and 
khaki tunics open at the neck jostled against store 
managers, lawyers, or accountants in well fitting 
whites. A doctor nodded to Hewitt and passed on 
toward the billiard-room; the Dutch mate of a 
cargo-boat shouldered his way toward the bar; a 
young Englishman, evidently a new-comer, paused 
on the threshold as if in search of somebody, then 
walked straight up to Pennington. 


ARRIVAL OP JOCELYN GWYNNE 3^09 


“How do, Penn?” v 

The man with the extraordinary eyes came tb 
his feet. 

“Gwy*nne! What the devil are you doing here?” 

The new-comer lowered his voice. 

“There’s not a lot going on in Singapore, so 
they thought I’d like the trip. We had your cable 
all right about the Yellow Seven mob. We had the 
shipping watched, but Chai-Hung slipped in—and 
slipped out again. I caught sight of him for a 
couple of seconds outside Raffle’s, tracked him to 
Labuan—and then lost the trail altogether. I ’m 
to report to you for duty.” 

“Good man! Hewitt, this is Jocelyn Gwynne. 
Dawson, Gwynne! Mr. Gwynne, Mr. Dawson!” 

He sat down again. 

“So you actually saw Chai-Hung?” said the 
commissioner presently. 

Gwynne nodded. He was a short, sturdy youth, 
square-headed and fair-haired. His chin was per¬ 
haps a trifle too prominent, and a perpetual 
twinkle danced in his eyes. 

“Just before the trouble began out here, I met 
Chai-Hung at Johore, and his face is not one that 
easily slips the memory. Since then, of course, the 
old blighter’s lost a hand, which makes identifica¬ 
tion easier still. Anyhow, I’d been having a spot 
with Chard Bromley at the hotel. Just as I was 
thinking of pushing off, a rather notorious bad hat 


1 


310 * THE YELLOW SEVEN 

tried to touch him for money. Bromley’s a decent 
little chap, taking him all around, and I thought 
my interference was justified. He saw my point, 
and refused. Soames had n’t heard what I’d said 
to Bromley, but I gathered from the look he gave 
me when he cleared that he understood what had 
come between the planter and his generosity. I 
followed him out, partly out of curiosity and partly 
because I wanted an excuse for going, and, leaning 
against a stone parapet, I saw Chai-Hung. He 
was in pukka evening-kit, and his shirt-front was 
immaculate. About half a dozen paces from him 
a large car was waiting. Soames walked straight 
up to him, and, before I could collect my senses, 
they had driven off together.” 

“Soames and CHai-Hung,” murmured Penning¬ 
ton. “I don’t think I remember Soames.” 

“Oh, he’s an actor-feller—rather a clever im¬ 
personator, as a matter of fact—who washed out 
of a revue company while they were playing at 
Singapore. Drugs were his chief trouble, I under¬ 
stand ! Whichever way it was, they fired him; and 
he’s been touting for a living ever since.” 

“Chard Bromley’s over here now,” said the Com¬ 
missioner. “You ’ll probably have an opportunity 
of improving your acquaintance with him. By 
the way, you referred to him as a little feller; I 
should hardly call Bromley little, would you, Daw¬ 
son?” 


ARRIVAL OF JOCELYN GWYNNE 311 


Dawson shook his head ponderously. 

“Scarcely. I did n’t see him for long, but he im¬ 
pressed me as being tall and powerfully built.” 

Gwynne looked from one to the other in undis¬ 
guised amazement. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Positive.” The commissioner smiled conde¬ 
scendingly at the younger man, who had crimsoned 
to the roots of his hair. “His daughter’s staying 
at my place now.” 

“Daughter?” 

“People do have daughters, you know,” put in 
Dawson. 

Pennington laughed. ^ 

“Come along, Gwynne. We’re going to rope you 
in for dinner with us. You ’ll be able to see for 
yourself then. You’ve got hold of the wrong man, 
old son; done it myself scores of times.” 

“He never said a word about a daughter,” per¬ 
sisted the man from Singapore. 

Dawson surveyed him solemnly. 

“A very wise precaution. With dashing young 
blades like yourself about, I can fully appreciate 
his motives in keeping her under cover.” 

“I tell you I met Chard Bromley in the bar at 
Raffle’s. He was a little man, and I’m prepared 
to wager he had n’t a daughter with him.” 

Hewitt rose to his feet, the others following suit. 

“Some one’s been pulling your leg,” he told him. 


312 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“Chard Bromley’s here all right. I happened to 
see his credentials myself, and they were perfectly 
in order. He’s talking about arranging a gigantic 
house-warming, by the bye, in the bungalow the late 
manager never lived to see completed. He’s run¬ 
ning it on decent lines, and I suppose everybody 
who’s anybody ’ll be there.” 

Pennington affected surprise. 

“You going, Jack?” 

“You bet,” chimed in Dawson, answering for 
him. “He’s not missing any chances of dancing 
with the alluring Enid! They’ve started prac¬ 
tisin’ for the event already—after dinner to the 
gramaphone.” 

“I don’t see why not,” said the commissioner, ig¬ 
noring the remark. 

“And Monica?” 

“She’s pretty keen on the notion. It ’ll make 
a pleasant sort of change for her.” 

They left the club-house and descended the long 
flight of white steps that led to the road. Dawson 
and Gwynne walked in front. 

“Bromley’s area’s still restless,” said Penning¬ 
ton, after a prolonged pause. “If he raided the 
estate while you were dancing, Chai-Hung’d stand 
a fair chance of bagging every important function¬ 
ary in Borneo.” 

Hewitt laughed. 

“Twenty or thirty whites would give your friend 


ARRIVAL OF JOCELYN GWYNNE 313 


a deuced warm reception. I ’m not forgetting the 
Yellow Seven, and I ’ll make it my business to in¬ 
sure nobody goes up empty-handed.” 

“Do, by all means.” 

“Besides,” pursued the commissioner, “what the 
dickens d’ you suppose we’ve got you here for? 
It’s jolly well up to you to police the neighborhood 
and keep the elusive Chai-Hung and his merry 
men occupied.” 

“If Chai-Hung only knew of this, he’d snaffle the 
lot of you.” 

“You’ve a jolly poor opinion of your own 
country-men.” 

Chinese Pennington screwed up his face until his 
eyes seemed to have disappeared altogether. 

“I’ve an enormous respect for Chai-Hung,” he 
said. 


CHAPTER XXX 


THE GARDEN OF ENCHANTMENT 

C APTAIN JOHN HEWITT stretched him¬ 
self wearily, pushed away the batch of 
documents at which he had been working 
after dinner, and strolled out upon the 

yeranda. 

It was a calm tropic night with a soft breeze 
rustling the exotic plants in the garden below, 
bringing with it a suggestion of impending rain. 
Both the living-room and the veranda were de¬ 
serted. He cast a quick glance round him and re¬ 
marked that one of the most comfortable chairs 
was missing. Thirty seconds later he had suc¬ 
ceeded in tracing the dim outline of the missing 
piece of furniture, not a dozen yards from the foot 
of the steps. A single glowing spot, accentuated 
against the blackness, indicated that the chair was 
occupied. 

Hewitt went down. 

“That you, Peter?” 

The pleasantly contralto tones of Enid replied to 
him: 

“No, it’s I, Captain Hewitt. The others have 
gone down to the coast. Mrs. Viney was anxious 

314 


THE GARDEN OF ENCHANTMENT 315 


to discover how the native fishermen spiked fish.” 

He was aware of a mild rush of blood to the 
head, combined with a feeling of utter thankfulness 
that matters should have arranged themselves so 
conveniently. He took the flight at a couple of 
strides, and, selecting a wicker stool, placed it in 
the immediate proximity of Miss Bromley. 

“By Gad!” he remarked, rubbing his hands to¬ 
gether, “I had that sinking feeling they talk about 
in advertisements when I emerged from my office. 
For a moment I thought you ’d all cleared out and 
left me to pass the rest of the evening in company 
with the decanter and a book. Why did n’t you go 
and see the fishing by lamplight, Miss Bromley?” 

She tossed the end of her cigarette into the dark¬ 
ness. 

“I don’t know. I suppose it was sheer laziness. 
Besides, I had a headache.” 

The commissioner winced. He did n’t quite 
know what he had expected her to answer, but 
somehow he had n’t bargained for laziness and a 
headache. There must have been a shade of dis¬ 
appointment in his reply, for she hastened to re¬ 
assure him. 

“It was a very slight headache, you know. As a 
matter of fact, I’m not at all sure it existed at all. 
But it did n’t seem altogether fair going out to en¬ 
joy ourselves while you were slaving away in there. 
So I stopped.” 


316 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


There was something about Enid Bromley that 
was far more intoxicating than the contents of the 
decanter. For a matter of moments Hewitt’s brain 
and his muscular system seemed cut off from one 
another, and he groped for a cigar in all pockets 
but the right one. He found it at last, however, 
and lit it with fingers the shakiness of which sur¬ 
prised him. 

“That was really very nice of you,” he contrived 
to respond. “I’m sorry you missed the show on 
my account. It’s quite an interesting spectacle, 
if you ’ve never seen it. The fish comes up to the 
surface to see what the light is—and Mr. Black 
Man jabs his spear into it.” 

The girl laughed. For the hundredth time Hew¬ 
itt reminded himself that he liked Enid Bromley’s 
laugh. 

“Perhaps I should have gone after all! I must 
get you to take me, one of these nights, when 
you ’re not too busy.” 

The commissioner’s heart leaped within him. 

“We ’ll go to-morrow.” 

He could just see her white upturned face and 
the suggestion of girlish grace that the semi¬ 
transparent scarf implied as it fell in gentle waves 
over her shoulders. 

“Is it very far?” 

“No distance at all. We could be there inside 
half an hour.” 


THE GARDEN OF ENCHANTMENT 317 


A brief pause. 

“Could n’t we go to-night?” 

“Certainly, if you ’re not too tired. Would you 
like to?” 

“Awfully.” 

He sprang to his feet, and the glowing dial of his 
wrist-watch caught his eye. Eleven twenty! He 
wondered if she knew, and if he ought to tell her. 
An inner voice reminded him that Monica was 
down there at that moment with Pennington—and 
possibly Dawson. It was a perfectly natural 
thing for Enid and himself to go in search of them. 
It w r as quite on the cards they would run into 
them on the way down. The one thought that re¬ 
mained constant in his mind as he hurried in 
search of a wrap was that he wanted to go with 
Enid, and if he left it till another night the others 
would want to go, too. He decided not to direct 
attention to the time unless asked, and it did not 
occur to him strange that Miss Bromley did not 
ask! 

If love is blind, infatuation is surely distress¬ 
ingly short-sighted. Hewitt—under normal cir¬ 
cumstances regarded as a level-headed official and 
as confirmed a bachelor as it was possible to meet 
in a day’s march—did not stop to ask himself if he 
loved Enid. He realized in a hazy sort of way 
that she was infinitely desirable, that Pennington 
was going to deprive him of his sister’s company 


318 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


at the bungalow, and that he did not altogether 
relish the notion of living alone. Circumstances 
and surroundings were against him, but he had 
himself to thank for that. He had left out of his 
calculations the danger of a sandy, palm-trimmed 
shore, with a myriad of flitting paper lanterns 
transforming it into a children’s fairyland, the 
lapping of restless waters, and the presence of the 
great, friendly stars that blink at indiscretion— 
and tell no tales. He had forgotten that, in the 
vast hothouse of the Orient, things are apt to ripen 
with startling rapidity. 

On the way to the coast he took her arm, because 
it seemed a perfectly natural and permissible 
thing to do. It was a shapely arm, warm and 
bare, and the possession of it brought its owner 
pleasantly near to him. They stood for a while, 
applauding the efforts of men in loin-cloths and of 
laughing girls, with sarongs tucked up well above 
their knees, until a wave, more ambitious than its 
predecessors, threatened to encircle them. Hewitt 
had read somewhere that salt water did not tend to 
improve dainty shoes with paste buckles. He 
swept Enid into his arms and deposited her pres¬ 
ently on a convenient grass-grown bank among the 
trees. They talked in disjointed sentences, with¬ 
out either appearing to notice. Suddenly the girl 
sighed. 


THE GARDEN OF ENCHANTMENT 319 


“It’s simply wonderful! Why did n’t you tell 
me? Did n’t you know it was like this?” 

A voice that Hewitt dimly understood was his 
own replied: 

“It was n’t like this—until you came.” 

It was too dark for him to see the look of tri¬ 
umph in her eyes. They had closed, moreover, by 
the time he had realized that her parted lips were 
tantalizingly near to his own—and had bridged the 
distance with an impetuosity that was new to him. 
The catch of her breath, the unexpected yielding to 
his caress appealed to his sense of protection; the 
wisp of dark hair that brushed his cheek, the per¬ 
fume of her clothes, thrilled him. He awoke at 
last to the bitter knowledge that the hour-glass of 
their exquisite pleasure was fast running out, that 
Monica would be wondering what had happened to 
them, and the affable Dawson would have added 
another arrow to his quiver of ponderous witti¬ 
cisms. 

At the foot of the garden, Enid made him stop. 

“Jack,” she whispered, “you need n’t tell them 
yet—unless you like.” 

He started. 

“I shall have to,” he said. “There ’ll be no end 
of a scandal if I don’t.” 

“I see. I had a note from father this evening. 
I did n’t tell you. It slipped my memory. I’ve 


320 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


got to join him immediately. He’s lonely up there. 
You ’ll come to our house-warming, won’t you? 
And bring everybody you can. I want it to be a 
big success.” 

And Captain Hewitt promised. 

Dawson had gone back to the rest-house, and 
Monica was evidently in the act of undressing, for 
she contented herself with calling to them over the 
partition that separated her room from the ve¬ 
randa. 

“How late you are, you two!” 

The commissioner looked at Enid and grinned. 

“Are we?” 

“Frightfully. Where on earth have you been?” 

Monica’s voice sounded as if filtered through a 
mouthful of hair-pins. 

“We came down to meet you,” said Enid. “I 
don’t know how we missed you. Are there two 
ways?” 

“There are—and Jack knows them both. He 
ought to have remembered that w r e never take the 
path through the trees. I suppose that’s how you 
missed us,” she added w T ith a touch of malice. 

There are decided drawbacks to talking through 
a wall, even if only a wooden one. Hewitt felt 
this. 

“Are n’t you coming out?” 

“No, I can’t.” 



THE GARDEN OP ENCHANTMENT 321 


“You can slip on a dressing-gown—or something. 
Be a sport!” 

“Not me,” laughed Monica. “Peter’s hanging 
about somewhere; and I ’ye more self-respect than 
to let him see me with my war-paint oft.” 

“I’ve something to tell you.” He almost said 
“we,” but checked himself in time. 

“I can hear you perfectly from here. What is 
it?” 

In some respects Hewitt was sensitive. He was 
particularly keen on seeing for himself the effect of 
his statement upon his sister. Nor was he alto¬ 
gether satisfied that Monica liked Enid. She had 
been particularly sweet to her since her arrival, 
but Monica could be sweet to her worst enemy 
when she chose. 

“Monica, Miss Bromley’s going up-country to¬ 
morrow,” he said, suddenly endowed with a happy 
inspiration. 

“In which case,” asserted the exasperating voice, 
which might have been at the far end of a long- 
distance telephone, “the sooner she gets to bed the 
better. The train leaves just after breakfast.” 

“I know. Er—good night, Miss Bromley.” 

“Good night. . . . Good night, Mrs. Viney.” 

The commissioner went to his room, walking 
with unnecessary emphasis. Enid paused outside 
her own door and blew a kiss to him from the tips 
of her fingers. He removed his shoes and crept 


322 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


along his own corridor as if he had no right to be 
there at all. Their parting embrace was a marvel 
of discretion, but the noisy extinguishing of Mon¬ 
ica’s hurricane-lamp on the floor of her room al¬ 
most suggested that she had overheard. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


THE BARRIER OF FIRE 

A S Hewitt had predicted, almost everybody 
who mattered went to Chard Bromley’s 
house-warming, the fact that the func¬ 
tion had been twice postponed merely 
appearing to whet the general appetite for an affair 
that was made doubly welcome by its sheer origi¬ 
nality. In the usual run of things, house-warmings 
were lurid festivals and did not extend beyond the 
male portion of Borneo society. There were many, 
therefore, who were infinitely relieved to observe 
that the new manager of the Baniak-Baniak ha- 
bun was striking out on a fresh line. It must 
nevertheless be admitted that there were among 
the older hands those who adhered to time-honored 
tradition, and for these Chard Bromley had tact¬ 
fully catered at the bungalow of his first assistant. 

The commissioner and Monica were among the 
first arrivals, Dawson putting in an appearance an 
hour or so later in company with Moorhouse, dis¬ 
trict officer at Bukit-Iban. Chinese Pennington 
was presumably keeping a watchful eye on move¬ 
ments of the Yellow Seven, for neither he nor 

323 


324 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


Jocelyn Gwynne showed up at dinner. Besides 
Enid Bromley and Monica, there were seven other 
women, wives of planters and officials. The meal 
w r as served under a vast awning, illuminated by 
means of an electric light plant installed by the 
late manager. Native waiters in white jackets 
moved swiftly between the tables, making up in 
enthusiasm what they lacked in training, and 
grinning whenever a champagne-cork left a bottle. 

Chard Bromley was in his element. His tall 
figure moved everywhere, now shaking the hand of 
a guest who had just arrived, now stooping his 
broad shoulders to reply to a feminine compliment 
with an easy, well chosen sentence. He was 
undeniably handsome, and the dark hair going 
gray at the sides lent an air of distinction. His 
ordinarily pale cheeks were slightly flushed, and, 
as the meal wore on, his flood of conversation in¬ 
creased in volume until every eye in the room was 
fixed upon him. It seemed to Monica, who lost 
nothing, that he had caught something of the 
sparkle of the vintage he had unearthed; but his 
glass remained as she had first seen it, and when 
he joined in a toast his lips touched the surface of 
the fluid and that was all. 

It is possible that Mrs. Viney was prejudiced. 
She had started with a vaguely conceived dislike 
for Enid, and it was not altogether unnatural for 


THE BARRIER OF FIRE 


325 


her to extend this animosity toward her father. 
But, quite apart from this, there was something 
about Chard Bromley that repelled her. He 
seemed to be acting a part, to be assuming a culti¬ 
vated accent rather than talking naturally; and, 
eyeing him furtively, she noticed that he glanced 
at frequent intervals at his watch. It dawned 
upon her presently that for some reason Bromley 
was afflicted with nerves. Upon the slightest ex¬ 
cuse he would shelter himself behind his privilege 
as host, and spring from his chair, apparently 
actuated by courtesy to a new-comer or to some¬ 
body the waiters had forgotten, but in reality, she 
decided, because he had something on his mind that 
would not let him rest. She found herself sorting 
things out in her mind, wondering why on earth 
he had gone to so much trouble and expense, why 
he had insisted on dragging in from everywhere 
people whom he was unlikely to see again unless by 
the sheerest freak of circumstance. The lighting- 
effects, the grouping of the native boys, the 
arrangement of the tables, the lavish assortment of 
exotic blooms, reminded her more of a cinema feast 
than a planter’s reception. It was admittedly 
magnificent, for all the world as if the magic car¬ 
pet had been hired for the night to transport a 
Gargantuan repast from a Piccadilly restaurant to 
a Borneo rubber estate, hemmed in on three sides 


326 THE YELLOW SEVEN 

by virgin jungle and on the fourth by the open 
sea. 

Enid, pale, glittering, and amazingly turned 
out, added the last theatrical touch that was want¬ 
ing to the scene. She had greeted Hewitt with 
affected warmth—and promptly forsaken him to 
flit among her guests like a gorgeoius butterfly, 
scattering her charms broadcast. 

The meal was finished. During the simulta¬ 
neous pushing back of chairs Monica found Daw¬ 
son at her side. 

“It ’s all wrong, Mrs. Viney,” he was saying, 
“He can’t possibly expect us to dance after this. 
Two-thirds of the men are bottled already, or well 
on the way toward it. The rest of ’em have laid 
such a solid foundation that they won’t care about 
indulging in serious exercise. Hullo, here’s 
young Gwynne! What an unholy hour to roll 
up!” 

“He’s brought a friend, too,” added Monica, 
turning slightly to scrutinize a dapper man in 
immaculate whites who had not troubled to re¬ 
move his topi. 

Suddenly a woman screamed. It was at that 
moment that Mrs. Viney saw that Gwynne held 
Chard Bromley covered with a businesslike auto¬ 
matic. 

“Don’t move, Mr. Soames!” he said coldly. 


THE BARRIER OF FIRE 327 

“Captain Hewitt, do you mind seeing that Miss 
Mayne does n’t clear?” 

The commissioner started to his feet, his fore¬ 
head wrinkled. 

“I mean the woman who calls herself Enid Brom¬ 
ley. Soames, now we ’re all here, perhaps you ’ll 
be good enough to tell us why Chai-Hung paid 
your passage to Borneo! why you kidnapped the 
real Chard Bromley and dumped him in a cellar 
in the Chinese quarter of Singapore! and what 
you and your confederate hope to gain by all this!” 
He concluded with an eloquent sweep of his free 
hand. 

Women looked from one to the other with star¬ 
tled eyes; men sprang from their seats and groped 
for their hip-pockets. 

“What’s all this mean, GWynne?” demanded 
Hewitt. 

The younger man beckoned to his companion. 

“This is the real Chard Bromley.” 

“But—” gasped Dawson. The sentence was 
never concluded, for, with surprising suddenness, 
every light went out. At the same time a distant, 
muffled explosion rent the outer air. 

There followed a scene of indescribable confu¬ 
sion, of pandemonium, above which Gwynne’s voice 
could be heard shouting for somebody to stop 
Soames. 


328 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


Hewitt gathered his scattered wits. 

“Keep quite still, everybody/’ he ordered. 
“Dawson, find that switch.” 

After an appreciable interval the light came on, 
revealing a chaotic mingling of overturned tables 
and scattered or broken crockery. There was no 
sign of Enid or Soames or the native waiters in 
the white coats. The man who had been nearest 
the actor had vanished, too. He turned almost 
immediately, wild-eyed and breathless. 

“It’s the Yellow Seven,” he panted excitedly. 
“They’ve fired the forest. That swine must have 
known all about it; he’s been felling trees for 
weeks. The whole estate’s surrounded by a circle 
of flame! It ’ll be upon us before w 7 e know where 
we are!” 

The real Chard Bromley came forward. 

“The assistants had better get their men out 
at once,” he said, “and begin clearing a line round 
the outer boundary of the estate. As far as I’ve 
been able to gather, the outer sections have been 
more recently planted. There’s still a sporting 
chance, if they all pull together, of saving the bulk 
of the rubber. Which is Mr. Richards?” 

A man standing close behind Hewitt held up 
his arm. 

“Is there a boat to get the ladies away in?” 

“There was a motor-boat, sir; but I’m afraid 
this Soames feller will have taken it,” 


THE BARRIER OF FIRE 


329 


“Get down after him as quickly as you can. 
Turn out the coolies, you others, and get busy.” 
He rapped out the words like a man accustomed to 
command. 

A broad, good-humored campaigner extended a 
hand. 

“We ’re all with you, boss,” he assured him. 
“I’m Kent, of Limakis. We came here to dance, 
but it’s all in the day’s work! He’s a mighty 
clever guy, this Chai-Hung! The commissioner 
made us turn up armed to the teeth, but that 
didn’t worry the Yellow Seven gang; they’d 
counted on roasting us alive.” 

“Dawson,” said the commissioner hoarsely, 
“collect the ladies and get them down to the shore. 
The rest of us had better hurry to the scene of 
action right away.” 

Dawson, amiable, unperturbed, conducted his 
ladies through the avenue of waving rubber, chat¬ 
ting all the while with the volubility of a Cook’s 
guide. The light from the encircling conflagra¬ 
tion aided their progress, and they emerged upon 
a narrow strip of sand to see two figures knee- 
deep in the shallows, in the act of launching a 
boat. 

As Dawson dashed forward, a dark form shot 
from the water, ducked smartly to avoid Soames’s 
fire, then fell upon him with the swiftness and 


330 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


judgment of a panther. The two men closed in 
frenzied combat, and the actor’s pistol spoke again. 
The bullet must have singed his assailant's side, 
so close did the flash seem, and the girl who had 
called herself Enid Bromley uttered a little gasp¬ 
ing cry. She fell against the boat, one hand 
pressed to her breast, then rolled awkwardly down¬ 
ward, splashing beneath the undulating surface of 
the incoming sea. 

There were two things uppermost in Dawson’s 
mind: to aid the man w r ho had tackled Soames 
and to save the vessel from capsizing. He was 
relieved from the former duty, however, by the 
sound of an exultant “Got you, my friend,” as he 
came up with them. 

“Pennington!” 

“You can bet your life!” laughed the other, 
snapping something over Soames’s wrists. “I 
started out with young Gwynne, but fancied this’d 
be the locality where some of the amusement’d 
take place. The native mechanic who should have 
piloted them you ’ll find in that clump of trees. 
He’s feeling mighty sorry for himself, and a six- 
shooter might convince him that the ownership of 
the boat’s changed.” 

“They’ve got me on a soft job,” returned Daw¬ 
son, with evident disgust in his voice. 

“Good luck to ’em !” said the other. His face be¬ 
came suddenly serious. “Some one came after 


THE BARRIER OF FIRE 


331 


Soames, and he plugged him before I could butt in. 
He’s got something to answer for, this merchant.” 

The fight had gone out of the man who touted in 
Singapore for a living; the effects of the drug had 
worn off, and he preceded Pennington meekly to 
the shore. Halfway back to the bungalow he 
turned. It was evident in every feature that he 
was the vistim of acute depression. 

“He paid me to do this,” he said dully. 

Pennington nodded. 

“I don’t think I care what happens to me—now. 
Every hand was against me over there. I was 
broke to the wide, and he helped me. I did n’t let 
myself realize what all this preparation actually 
meant. I doped down my conscience. Oh, I’ve 
got a conscience right enough,” he added fiercely. 
“If I’d been normal I’d never have shot Richards 
—or her/’ 

A man came racing through the darkness. He 
tripped over a root, recovered himself, and recog¬ 
nized Soames. 

“You swine!” he screamed. “You damned 
swine! The coolies have struck. They’re leaning 
on their axes down there now. Chai-Hung’s or¬ 
dered them to, and they ’re doing nothing till he 
tells them otherwise. This is your doing!” 

It came to Pennington in a flash. 

“Shut up, Bourne,” he said quietly. “I think 
I’ve found a way out.” 


332 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


The other choked down his wrath. 

“It wants Chai-Hung,” he persisted, “and he’s 
behind that barrier of tire.” 

“Soames,” broke in Pennington, “you say you’ve 
got a conscience; have you got your make-up box 
handy, too?” 

Soames started. 

“It ’s in my kit somewhere. I brought every¬ 
thing I possessed with me.” 

“Then come on, for the love of heaven. Bourne, 
nip down and tell Hewitt I’m here.” 

Into the light of the conflagration, where white 
men stripped to the waist toiled like fiends— 
and swart Chinamen stood sullenly resting on 
their implements, there walked with placid dignity 
an immense Oriental in white tunic and baggy 
black trousers. A gold watch-chain stretched 
across his chest, and his left arm rested in a scarf 
that was knotted behind his neck. At sight of 
him the coolies fell prone and the Britishers re¬ 
mained momentarily motionless, staring before 
them in incredulous amazement. 

“My God!” said Hewitt. “Chai-Hung!” 

One single phrase, guttural and penetrating, 
escaped the pursed-up lips of the arch-bandit:— 

“Obey your white masters.” 

He paused only to watch the electrical effect of 
his utterance, then strode back through the trees. 


THE BARRIER OF FIRE 333 

Hewitt, gazing in bewilderment, saw Gwynne slip 
after him, revolver in hand. 

“I don’t know what his game is,” he shouted 
over his shoulder, “but he’s not getting away with 
it like that!” 

The commissioner dropped his axe and ran for 
all he was worth. 

He was ten yards from Gwynne when he fired 
with deadly accuracy. When Chai-Hung pitched 
forward on his face, Hewitt w T as aware of an enor¬ 
mous weight lifted from his mind. He was glad 
somehow that he hadn’t done it; but Chai-Hung 
dead— It would been the beginning of a new era. 

Gwynne was on his knees. He turned suddenly. 

“It’s not Chai-Hung. It’s-! Hewitt, are we 

all going mad?” 

The commissioner, a choking sensation in his 
throat, realized that Soames had played his last 
part. 



CHAPTER XXXII 


VAN DAULEN 

P ENNINGTON stumbled wearily up the 
steps of the commissioner’s bungalow and 
threw himself at full length in a long 
chair. 

Captain Hewitt, immersed in the fourth attempt 
to bring to a successful conclusion a particularly 
complicated game of solitaire, swept the cards into 
a jumbled heap and jerked up his head. 

“That you, Penn?” 

The man with the Chinese eyes moved restlessly. 
“It’s me, all right! I’m dead beat.” 

His gaze wandered round the veranda until it 
lit upon the decanter. 

“Thirsty?” 

“Uncommonly! And too confounded lazy to 
get up and help myself; d’ you mind?” 

The commissioner came to his feet, glancing at 
the same time at his wrist-watch. He measured 
out what he knew to be Pennington’s habitual 
tot. 

“Double it,” suggested the voice from the chair. 
Hewitt complied. 


334 


VAN DAULEN 


335 


“Soda?” 

The other shook his head. 

“I fancy it’s a tonic I require, not a drink.” He 
reached out for the tumbler. “Hewitt, old son, 
I ’ye reconnoitered the complete coast-line of 
British North Borneo since I saw you last. The 
Chai-Hung affair’s nearing its final stages. The 
bandit knows it and will probably make a des¬ 
perate attempt to quit the island altogether. A 
thing like that’d be fatal to both my reputation 
and your own. We’d be the laughing-stock of the 
universe, and Chai-Hung would be free to continue 
his murderous career elsewhere.” 

The commissioner yawned. He had had a heavy 
day, and it was ten minutes short of midnight. 

“He’s been away before,” he reminded the 
younger man. “But he’s rolled up again with un¬ 
failing regularity.” 

Pennington’s fingers groped in a pocket, search¬ 
ing for his pouch and cigarette-papers. 

“Things have never been so hot for our enemy as 
they are at this moment. Business houses with 
interests here are offering substantial rewards for 
his capture; district officers are keen as mustard to 
qualify for ’em; and native chiefs are rousing them¬ 
selves to the extent of carrying out a little amateur 
detective work on their own. The secret society 
of which Chai-Hung is the head has to lie pretty 
low in these days, you can take it from me; the 


336 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


Yellow Seven’s becoming a back number; it’s 
weeks since tbe yellow card with the seven black 
dots went abroad with its message of death. 
We ’re going to stamp it out altogether, you and 
I, before it can find an opportunity of spreading 
to other areas where Chinamen abound. It’s 
Chai-Hung’s amazing personality alone that has 
kept the fire smoldering that we’ve exerted every 
effort to extinguish.” He blew out a long wreath 
of smoke and rubbed his hands together. “It’s 
been a wonderful experience, Hewitt, in spite of 
all our set-backs. There’s something exhilarating 
in tackling a worthy enemy.” 

Hewitt smiled. 

“I’m glad you think so! For my part I’m 
utterly fed up with our yellow friend.” 

“Of course you are. You want to place Chai- 
Hung in a convenient cover and pigeonhole him 
for evermore. He’s a thorn in your side, and one 
of a hundred or so cases that are demanding your 
attention. Look at it from my point of view. 
This polished, unscrupulous brigand is my one 
ewe lamb. You sent for me to lay him by the heels, 
Lord knows how many weary months ago; and I’m 
still at it. I suppose I ought to be ashamed that 
I’ve let him slip through my fingers so many times, 
and avoiding my fellow-men because he’s still at 
large; but, surprising as it may sound, the affair 
does n’t get me that way at all. It does n’t much 


VAN DAULEN 


337 


matter how but I happen to know the light in 
which Chai-Hung regards me. He hates me; great 
man that he is, he’s mortally afraid of me; he 
walks abroad starting at every shadow, for fear He 
Who Sees in the Dark is lurking to administer ven¬ 
geance for the white lives he and his gang have 
taken. One day, Hewitt, the shadow will mate¬ 
rialize !” 

“I envy that shadow,” said the commissioner. 
“If he misses such a target he ought to be shot 
at dawn! What’s Chai-Hung’s weight, d ’you 
imagine—eighteen stone?” 

“Or thereabouts. Nearer twenty, perhaps.” 

“Good Lord! To any one who was n’t aware of 
his resourcefulness it’d be positively incredible.” 

“The problem’s sufficiently involved for those 
who do! No other man of half his girth could 
have given us such a run for our money. To re¬ 
turn to the main issue: For sixteen solid days 
I’ve been acting as a sort of railway-porter, 
slamming doors on Mr. Chai-Hung. Every planter 
owning an inch of coast is on the qui vive or says 
he is. After so many assurances of loyalty and 
devotion to duty, I had to sit down in a quiet 
corner and consider who was the unclean hound 
that was letting us down.” 

Hewitt started. 

“There is somebody, then!” 

“Undoubtedly. Fortunately it appears there’s 


338 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


only one. His place is under the closest observa¬ 
tion possible. It’s sheer assumption, of course, 
but I’m prepared to swear I’m right.” 

The commissioner leaned forward in his chair. 

“Who is it?” he demanded in a low voice. 

“Domberg.” 

“The Dutch manager at Kasih-ayer?” 

The other nodded. 

“I arrived at my conclusion by a process of elim¬ 
ination. My first scrutiny left me with three 
possibles, all situated wide apart. I spent the 
best part of a fortnight in the immediate vicinity 
of each of ’em; and the Kasih-ayer estate romped 
home an easy first.” 

“Domberg!” murmured Hewitt, shaking his head 
from side to side and frowning deeply. “I ’d 
never have thought it.” 

“Stranger things have happened than that. 
Chai-Hung himself was our most respected Chinese 
resident at one time, if you remember. My 
esteemed chief of staff, one Rabat-Pilai, tells me 
that at certain seasons there’s more cargo sur¬ 
reptitiously discharged at Kasih-ayer than the 
customs authorities ever dreamed of.” 

“I ’ll put them wise in the morning,” said the 
commissioner between his teeth. 

Pennington’s hand fell on the other’s arm. 

“Don’t do that, or you ’ll spoil everything. It 
won’t do to let either Domberg or Chai-Hung sus- 


VAN DAULEN 


339 


pect we ’ve the place under observation. Pay ’em 
out sufficient rope, and you’ll find they ’ll both 
hang themselves at Kasih-ayer.” 

“What are you going to do?” 

“I’m going to bed,” returned Chinese Penning¬ 
ton, grinning inanely. 

“Damn you!” retorted Hewitt politely. 

“Thanks! How’s Monica, by the bye.” 

A voice from the other side of the partition cut 
into the commissioner’s reply. It was a feminine 
voice of an exceedingly pleasant timbre, and there 
was something in its ring which suggested that 
the owner had not merely been roused from a deep 
sleep but was, on the contrary, very wide-awake. 

“I was wondering when you were going to ask 
that! Forty-nine minutes under our hospitable 
roof, and never a syllable of inquiry for poor 
Monica. For a matter of seconds your fate hung 
in the balance.” 

“I know,” said Pennington. “I felt it wob¬ 
bling !” The fairest widow east of Suez, as Dawson 
had once termed her in a effort to be poetic, sailed 
upon the veranda attired in a gorgeous kimono 
of blue and silver. Her feet were thrust into em¬ 
broidered slippers with shiny red heels, and her 
brown curls danced in the light around a com¬ 
plexion as fresh as a spring morning. She settled 
herself comfortably on the arm of Pennington’s 
chair. 


340 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“Roll me a cigarette, please—a nice, fat one. 
Yon are rather a devil, are n’t you? You spend 
half your days wandering in the jungle wearing 
all sorts of unclean disguise, chasing a fat, oily 
Oriental. Whenever you feel you require a rest 
from this absorbing occupation, you wander in here 
at any old hour, drink our whisky, and talk shop 
into the ever-receptive ears of my brother. Hav¬ 
ing exhausted every possible subject of interest, 
it dawns upon you that you have a fiancee knock¬ 
ing around somewhere. How’s Monica, by the 
bye!” She glanced down at the cigarette now near - 
ing completion. “As a very special honor you 
may moisten the paper and stick it down.” 

“Dmy before pleasure, you know,” said Penning¬ 
ton, striking a match. “Besides, I thought you’d 
gone to bed.” 

“I had, but there was a mosquito in my curtains, 
a particularly hungry specimen, and I could n’t 
sleep. I say, is Domberg really in with Chai- 
Hung?” 

The two men exchanged glances. 

“Monica,” remonstrated Hewitt, “you’ve been 
listening!” 

“My poor, benighted imbecile, the w T ooden walls 
of this luxurious mansion act like so many 
sounding-boards; besides, have you ever encoun¬ 
tered the brand of woman that’s going to stuff 
cotton-wool in her ears and dive under the bed- 



VAN DAULEN 341 

clothes when secret service agents are broadcasting 
their exploits?” 

Pennington screwed np his peculiar eyes. 

“Brutally disillusioned! Of all the women 
in the world I believed you were the one who 
would.” 

Monica eyed the end of her cigarette. 

“I had n’t any cotton-wool, anyway—and no 
bedclothes to speak of. That’s one of the out¬ 
standing penalties of living in the tropics. I just 
had to listen. Who’s Domberg, Jack? Isn’t he 
that nice old Dutchman with the gray hair we 
met once in Sandakan?” 

Hewitt stretched his long legs. 

“That’s the feller. I’m not over-partial to 
Dutchmen, as you know, but I must confess I liked 
Domberg. Still, if Peter says—” 

“I don’t say anything. For all I know, Dom¬ 
berg may have no active hand in the affair at all, 
but the trouble’s been traced to the Kasih-ayer 
area, and, theoretically, he’s responsible for any¬ 
thing that goes on there.” 

The commissioner began counting on his fingers. 

“Who’s up there with him? Let’s see: Vance, 
Van Daulen, and Whittaker. Fairly decent 
crowd, taking them all round.” 

“The worst of your job,” broke in Pennington, 
“is that you only know this planting community 
in their best clothes and party manners. They 


342 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


roll into Jesselton perhaps six times a year, and 
the last person any of ’em ’d choose for father 
confessor would be his excellency the Commis¬ 
sioner of Police! Somebody at Kasih-ayer’s in 
league with the Yellow Seven, and the first thing 
up to me before I embark upon my final expedition 
against Chai-Hung is to find out who that is.” 

Hewitt rose slowly and began pacing the ve¬ 
randa, his hands clasped behind him. He paused 
suddenly and faced Pennington. 

“A white settler who can stretch out a helping 
hand to the Yellow Seven after the series of 
ghastly tragedies they’ve inflicted deserves no 
mercy. Shooting’s too good for him!” 

“According to the Malays,” said the other, 
“there ’s only one breed of white man—and that’s 
the British. Pretty discriminatin’ crowd, the 
Malays!” 

Hewitt nodded. 

“It was they who were first responsible for 
dubbing you He Who Sees in the Dark.” 

Monica surveyed her fiance curiously. 

“Can you?” 

Pennington evaded the question. 

“I can see as far through a brick wall as most 
people.” 

There came a thundering of hoofs from the white 
road at the foot of the slope, and, before Monica 
could reach the rail, a man had negotiated the path 


VAN DAULEN 


343 


and clambered breathlessly np the steps. He was 
tall and clean-shaven, with powerful shoulders that 
drooped somewhat. He wore no hat, his tunic was 
torn and travel-stained, his riding-boots plastered 
with mud. He halted on the threshold as if the 
light dazzled him, then hurled an accusing finger 
at Hewitt. 

“Look here, Captain Hewitt. I’m in no mood 
to pick my words. I want to know when you ’re 
going to put an end to this Yellow Seven business.’’ 

The commissioner poised himself on the table 
and reached behind him for the cigarettes. 

“It would simplify matters a great deal,” he 
said coolly, “if I knew who you were.” 

Pennington, who had not moved, winked at 
Monica. Mrs. Yiney wrinkled her brows inquir- 

ingly. 

“I ’m Van Daulen, of Kasih-ayer. I’ve ridden 
every inch of the way from there to-night.” 

“Did Domberg tell you to come?” demanded 
Pennington. 

The new-comer shot a suspicious glance at the 
speaker. 

“I came here to see the commissioner,” he re¬ 
turned pointedly, “but, since you ask it, Domberg 
did n’t tell me anything; he could n’t— he’s dead!” 

For fully a minute silence reigned on the broad 
veranda; Pennington still outstretched in his 
chair, Monica gripping the rail with both hands as 


3U 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


if she hoped to squeeze it to a smaller diameter, 
Hewitt dangling his legs over the side of the table, 
and Van Daulen wide-eyed and glowering. 

Hewdtt w r as the first to speak. 

“How did he die, Van Daulen ?” The words 
came with an effort. 

The Dutchman cleared his throat. 

“He was poisoned. Whittaker found him in his 
office. A fine metal point had been placed in his 
penholder, just where the forefinger pressed. We 
assume he just picked the thing up, and the poi¬ 
son that had been smeared on it got into his 
blood.” 

“How do you know this was the work of the 
Yellow Seven?” 

“There was a yellow patch painted on the side 
of the building, ornamented with seven black 
smudges.” 

“A large patch?” inquired the man in the chair. 

“About a yard long, I should say, and about a 
foot across.” 

“Nobody observed wandering about the estate 
complete with paint-pot and brushes?” 

Van Daulen turned to the commissioner. 

“Captain Hewitt, I must appeal to you. I’ve 
come a long distance to-night to inform you of the 
seriousness of the position in our territory, not 
to answer absurd questions. Our manager, Mr. 


VAN DAULEN 


345 


Domberg, has been murdered by Chai-Hung and 
his gang of cutthroats, and those of us that re¬ 
main are not feeling too comfortable about it.” 

“Sorry! I thought you two had possibly met 
before. Van Daulen, this is Pennington. He’s 
responsible for any action taken against Chai- 
Hung and consequently entitled to ask what ques¬ 
tions he chooses. Have you fixed up a room any¬ 
where?” 

“I expect there’s room for me at the rest-house, 
thanks. I ’ve got my pony down in the road.” 

“Can I offer you anything?” 

Van Daulen waved a hand in front of him. 

“Nothing at all.” 

“Well, drop in any time after ten to-morrow, 
and we ’ll talk things over. I’m sorry about poor 
Domberg. Good night.” 

He was barely out of ear-shot when Hewitt 
swung round on Pennington. 

“Rather a blow to your theory, what?” 

The other pressed his fingers together in front 
of his chin and assumed the expression usually 
associated with Cheshire cats. 

“Not in the least!” 

“You ’ll never admit when you ’re w^rong,” per¬ 
sisted the commissioner sadly. 

“And you ’ll never admit when I’m right, so 
w r e ’re much in the same boat. By the way, keep 


346 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


young Van Daulen in Jesselton as long as you can. 
I shall be running up to Kasih-a} T er to-morrow, 
and I’d like to pursue my inquiries without inter¬ 
ruption.” 

Hewitt drained his glass, threw a cigarette-end 
over the rail, and made off down the passageway 
to his room. 

“I ’ll do my best,” he shouted back over his 
shoulder. “But I’ve a deuce of a busy day before 
me, and Van Daulen’s inclined to be impetuous. 
Good night!” 

'•Good night, Jack!” Monica called after him. 

“I’ve said it once before to-night, already. 
Cheerio!” 

“Peter,” she demanded when they were alone. 
“Why do you go out of your way to quarrel?” 

“I don’t.” 

“But you do, dear. I’m sure you don’t realize 
how aggressive you are sometimes. The way you 
tackled that poor fellow, who’d ridden goodness 
knows how many miles, made me feel positively 
uncomfortable. He was dead beat, you know.” 

“So was I.” 

“You’d been resting over an hour before he 
came. People in your profession seem to lose all 
sense of perspective. Crime is an every-day occur¬ 
rence to you; you don't pause to reflect the shock 
to the nerves that a single tragedy such as this 
causes to somebody who’s possibly never seen a 


VAN DAULEN 


347 


dead man in the whole of his life before., It must 
have been terrible for Van Daulen.” 

“I wonder who discovered the fine metal point 
in the penholder, and decided it had been smeared 
with poison ?” 

“You have n’t been listening. I don’t believe 
you heard a word I said.” 

He drew her to him. 

“Dear little woman, I’ve been listening most 
patiently, but you see it’s utterly impossible for 
you to see my motives. I’m a queer, jumbled-up 
piece of machinery, sometimes actuated by reason, 
sometimes by a sort of sixth sense which Nature 
gave to me when she presented me with Chinese 
eyes. Every moment of my adventurous life is 
spent in the solution of weird problems, often 
pitting myself against the cunning of a civilization 
that was in existence centuries before our own. 
Somehow or other I’ve acquired the knack of hit¬ 
ting the nail bang on the head while others are 
hammering all round it. That’s why I’m here 
now; it’s exactly why your brother sent for me; 
and it’s why I sometimes talk as I do. I’m not 
like that with you.” 

“I should hope not, indeed!” 

“Nor with Jack or Dawson, nor even that prince 
of scarecrows, Rabat-Pilai. Do you remember 
what I was saying before Van Daulen came in? 
Somebody at Kasih-ayer’s in league with Chai- 


348 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


Hung, and I ’ye got to put my finger on him and 
keep him there. It might be Vance, Whittaker, 
their chief watchman, their Tamil apothecary; it 
might, on the other hand, be Van Daulen. I 
jumped on him right away when, as you say, he 
was dead beat. Why? Because at such a time 
he was less likely to be on his guard.” 

Monica moistened her lips. 

“But why should Van Daulen murder Domberg? 
They were fellow-countrymen. Domberg was a 
good manager. Jack respected him immensely.” 

Pennington spread his hands wide apart. 

“W T hy are any crimes committed? Jealousy, 
cupidity, ambition, lack of moral fiber, lack of 
funds—” 

“Do any of these apply to Van Daulen?” 

“I don’t know. It’s up to me to find out.” 

“Then,” concluded the girl triumphantly, 
“you ’ye no earthly reason to suspect him.” 

“Except,” said Pennington dreamily, “that 
when he stooped to put that pot of yellow paint 
away a corner of his tunic dipped into it!” 

Monica’s brain reeled. 

“But—” 

“He came away without bothering to change. 
Perhaps you did n’t notice, but the bottom corners 
of his coat curled, and the bulk of the stain was 
on the under side. He would n’t have seen that.” 

“It’s still purely conjecture. He might have 


VAN DAULEN 349 

gone right up to the sign to examine it, and brushed 
his coat against it.” 

Pennington smiled. 

“He might, if he ’d troubled to inspect it with 
a ladder. The Yellow Seven, if you remember, 
was painted on the side of Domberg’s house, and 
Domberg’s bungalow is built on piles ten feet or 
more above the ground.” 

“He has such a nice face!” said Monica irrele¬ 
vantly. 

“Unfortunately, that does n’t happen to be much 
to go by. Oh, and by the way, don’t mention what 
I’ve just told you to a soul.” 

Monica pouted. 

“Not even Jack?” 

“Not even Jack. The last thing I want is the 
arrest of the one man who might lead me to Chai- 
Hung.” 

“All right. You ’re going to Kasih-ayer to¬ 
morrow?” 

“Yes, by train. Why?” 

“As Peter Pennington, Esq., Englishman?” 

“Exactly.” 

“Isn’t that a little unwise? I mean if Van 
Daulen really helped to poison Mr. Domberg 
you ’ll be the last person he ’ll want to see up 
there.” 

A heavenly smile adorned Penningtou’s counte¬ 
nance. 


350 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“Undoubtedly.” 

She caught both sides of his coat and forced him 
to look at her. 

“Do be careful, Peter, for my sake. It was such 
a simple thing that killed Mr. Domberg, just a 
fine metal point in a penholder, the last thing 
one would suspect. You ’ll be miles from any¬ 
where, surrounded by men who will be naturally 
hostile, knowing that you suspect them; the Yellow: 
Seven will be waiting for you. If ever you fall 
into Chai-Hung’s hands you can expect no quarter. 
Could n’t you resort to one of your disguises just 
as well? Would n’t it be better to go there as a 
Chinaman, a native, anything rather than show 
your hand?” 

He ran his fingers caressingly through her curls. 

“I’m afraid it would n’t. There’s no need to 
be anxious,” he added quickly, “for I sha’n’t be so 
very alone. Rabat-Pilai will be hovering in the 
shadows, and he’s a host in himself. Holy Moses! 
Have you the remotest idea what the time is?” 

She shook her head, and there was a wistful 
look in her eyes. 

“It passes so quickly when you are here, and so 
slowly when you ’re away on these wretched ex¬ 
peditions. Come back soon, Peter dearest; prom¬ 
ise me you ’ll come back soon.” 

And Peter Pennington promised. 


r 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


THE WISDOM OF RABAT-PILAI 



VENING, Van Daulen!” 

The Dutchman started, almost falling 
backward down the steps of his own ve¬ 
randa, Curled in a somewhat frayed 
chair, a cigarette between his lips and a half- 
filled tumbler resting in the cavity in the arm, lay 
Chinese Pennington. 

“Oh! Good evening! Thought I’d left you 
behind in Jesselton.” 

“ ‘Hoped’ would be more accurate!” 

A shadow crossed Van Daulen’s face. 

“Eh? Not in the least. You must n’t be guided 
by my conduct last night. I was mudded up to 
my eyebrows, with every nerve on edge. Hewitt 
sent you up, I suppose?” 

He blundered past Pennington, found a seat, and 
began unlacing his boots. 

“Do you intend stopping here?” 

“If I may.” 

“Certainly; delighted, of course. No need to 
offer you a drink, I see!” 

Two diagonal slits were all that was visible of 
the Englishman’s eyes. 


351 


352 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“No, thanks. I brought my own!” 

Van Daulen paused with one boot half drawn 
off, and stared hard at his guest. 

“You—brought—your—own—whisky?” 

“That’s what I said.” 

“Look here, Pennington, I don’t know that I al¬ 
together like that! unless, of course, you use a 
special brand.” 

“I don’t,” returned the other complacently, pro¬ 
ducing a bottle from the back of his chair. “I 
expect yours is the same.” 

The Dutchman choked something back in his 
throat and discarded the boot. He was evidently 
ill at ease, for, wdiile endeavoring to operate the 
second pair of laces, he got them hopelessly 
knotted. 

“My boy made you pretty comfortable, I hope?” 
he jerked out without looking up. 

“Brought my own!” 

Van Daulen sprang to his feet, a ludicrous figure 
in one riding-boot and a gray sock. A deep flush, 
clearly visible beneath the tan, mounted to his 
forehead. 

“Confound it all, Pennington; this is too much 
of a good thing!” 

“And,” added the man with the Chinese eyes, 
“in case I have occasion to write anything, I’ve 
taken the additional precaution of bringing a 
fountain-pen! You look hot, Van Daulen!” 


THE WISDOM OF RABAT-PILAI 353 


The Dutchman stood for some moments, clench¬ 
ing and unclenching his fists, then dropped heavily 
back upon his seat. 

“You ’re a mighty cool customer, Pennington. 
If I thought for one moment you meant to im¬ 
ply anything by these extraordinary breaches of 
etiquette, I’d pitch you and your damned servant 
into the garden.” 

Pennington moved a cushion to a more com¬ 
fortable position. 

“I assume by that that you don’t intend to take 
any particular precautions yourself?” 

The lace broke. 

“Such as?” 

“Keeping a close watch on the cook-house, seeing 
that your razor is n’t tampered with, setting a 
reliable guard on the house at night, questioning 
all strangers found wandering on the estate.” 

“It occurs to me,” retorted Van Daulen, “that if 
you were to leave estate affairs to those who under¬ 
stand them, and occupy yourself solely with the 
rounding up of the Yellow Seven, you’d be render¬ 
ing the island a better service.” 

Pennington grinned. 

“You want me to go out and find Chai-Hung?” 

“Most certainly.” 

“I prefer to wait for him here.” 

“You ’ll have to wait a long time.” 

“D’ you really think that? Remember, he’s 


354 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


been here once at least. When you get to know 
the bandit as well as I do, you ’ll appreciate the 
thoroughness with which he works. I happen to 
know that Kasih-ayer is the identical spot selected 
by the Yellow Seven as offering a suitable stretch 
of coast-line to aid them in their future plans. 
They polished off poor old Domberg; that won’t 
help them much while Vance, Whittaker, and your¬ 
self are alive.” 

Van Daulen crossed the floor in his socks and 
poured himself out a stiff helping of neat spirit. 

“Why did n’t you put up at Vance’s or Whit¬ 
taker’s?” 

“Because,” said Pennington sweetly, “I had a 
notion Chai-Hung had selected you for his next 
victim, and I was anxious to protect you. I made 
a most interesting discovery while you were away 
this afternoon. I succeeded in running to earth 
a pot of bright yellow paint, a tin of black enamel, 
and two brushes.” 

Van Daulen span round on his heel. 

“Where?” he demanded thickly. 

“You’d never guess; buried a couple of feet 
down in a neatly boarded recess under your own 
house. That’s Chai-Hung all over! A pretty 
cool piece of impudence, what?” 

The Dutchman’s jaw moved several times before 
he found utterance. 

“Under—my—house ?” 


THE WISDOM OF RABAT-PILAI 355 


“Bang under the steps.” 

The other swallowed his liquor at a gulp. 

“What made you look there?” There was an 
unpleasant droop to the corners of his mouth, and 
his fingers moved restlessly one over the other. 

Pennington stretched himself. 

“I ? ve an extremely sensitive nose for paint, 
particularly when it’s yellow,” he declared calmly. 

Van Daulen leaned heavily on the rail, gazing for 
some moments into the brief tropic twilight. 

“May I see those brushes?” he inquired sud¬ 
denly. 

“I ? m afraid that’s impossible. You see, I sent 
them down to Hewitt by a special messenger 
over an hour ago. They ? ve a finger-print expert 
down there, and paint’s a thing that can be easily 
rubbed off.” 

There followed a long period of silence during 
which a lithe, brown-skinned scarecrow, with an 
ear and eye missing and a mouth slit at either side 
so that its owner wore a perpetual grin, emerged 
from the living-room and hung a lighted oil-lamp 
on a hook above the table. The Dutchman, still 
leaning over the wooden rail filling his pipe from 
a bag of Boer tobacco, observed the fall of dark¬ 
ness without turning his head. The servant 
paused on his way out, stared deliberately at Pen¬ 
nington, reciprocated the broad wink that he re¬ 
ceived, and disappeared. 


356 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“That stuff could n’t have got under here with¬ 
out somebody knowing it,” said Van Daulen to the 
shadowy branches that moved restlessly in the 
cool breeze from the sea. 

“That is my contention. Whoever was respon¬ 
sible for the crime had an accomplice in the house.” 

The other grunted. 

“Appears to lie between my boy and myself.” 

“So I took the liberty of arresting the boy.” 

“The devil you did!” 

Pennington sat bolt upright. 

“Look here, Van Daulen, you threw out a pretty 
broad hint last night concerning the supposed in¬ 
activity of the police. The thing was so absurd 
that Hewitt did n’t bother to defend himself. 
Within eighteen hours of hearing from you that 
Domberg was dead and the sign of the Yellow 
Seven plastered on his bungalow, I’ve found the 
implements that were employed to make that sign, 
I’ve made one arrest, and others will follow very 
promptly. Shall I tell you one other thing? The 
slackness was not on our side, but yours.” 

The Dutchman left the rail and came a pace or 
two nearer. 

“How d’ you make that out?” 

“I have known for a considerable time that Chai- 
Hung was in the neighborhood, and for ten days 
your boundaries have been patrolled by my own 
men. During the whole of that period not a single 


THE WISDOM OF RABAT-PILAI 357 

agent of the Yellow Seven has either entered or 
left.” 

“Your fellows must be exceptionally well in¬ 
formed if they know ’em all.” 

“They are.” 

Van Daulen stuck both hands in his tunic pocket 
and stood with his legs apart, swaying backward 
and forward. 

“Then, perhaps you can explain to me how it is 
that Chai-Hung’s been so long at large?” 

“Because,” said Pennington, “that amiable gen¬ 
tleman has still considerable funds at his dispo¬ 
sal, and there are men, whose positions ought to 
place them above suspicion, unscrupulous enough 
to accept payments from him in return for services 
rendered.” 

“How long do you propose staying here?” 

“Until the feller I’m looking for comes to find 
his paint.” 

“You still imagine he intends using it again?” 

“He’d have burnt it if he had n’t.” 

The Dutchman forced a smile. 

“Since we seem destined to be stable-companions 
for a considerable period, we’d better make the 
best of it. I don’t mind telling you, Pennington, 
that you ’re on the wrong track. There’s not a 
man on the place I could n’t vouch for, and the 
paint was probably intended for a blind. Whit¬ 
taker and Vance share a place between here and 


358 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


Domberg’s. They We both got Chinese servants; 
if Chai-Hung wants free access to the coast, they ’re 
as much in his way as I am, and there’s a partic¬ 
ularly fine opportunity for killing two birds with 
one stone. If you were in the bandit’s shoes, is n’t 
that the first thing that would occur to you?” 

“I think I shall stop here in any case. If ever I 
happen to be in need of somebody to teach me my 
business, I can't do better than to associate myself 
with one who can see things so well—from Chai- 
Hung’s point of view.” 

The dark features of the Dutchman remained im¬ 
mobile, but Pennington saw enough to satisfy him 
that the shaft had gone home. 

“You’ve placed me in a deuced awkward posi¬ 
tion,” he complained presently. “Until I replace 
my late servant, I suppose I’m at liberty to fall 
back on yours?” 

“Kabat-Pilai is entirely at your service. His 
personal appearance is the only thing against him; 
and you must blame your friend Chai-Hung for 
that.” 

Van Daulen jumped. 

“Why my friend?” 

“Why not?” 

The Dutchman choked, picked up his riding- 
boots, and moved off in search of his slippers. 

Pennington, once more alone, smiled curiously 




THE WISDOM OF RABAT-PILAI 359 


at a huge moth that wheeled round the flame of the 
lamp. A few minutes later he was on his feet, 
roaming in an apparently objectless fashion round 
the veranda, whistling to himself all the while. 
He picked up a book, glanced at the first page, and 
replaced it. Presently he took Van Daulen’s glass 
by the base and examined the rim through a 
pocket magnifving-glass. By the time the Dutch¬ 
man had shuffled back to his room, Pennington was 
outstretched in the cane chair, rolling a cigarette. 

Between nine and ten Van Daulen went out, tak¬ 
ing the path to the coolie-lines. Half an hour 
later Rabat-Pilai crept upon the veranda and 
halted before Pennington’s chair. 

“Well?” 

“Great tuan, the Dutchman left the estate by the 
gate that faces the sea. He went some little dis¬ 
tance into the forest to where a big tree stands 
alone. There was a hurricane-lamp hidden in the 
undergrowth. The tuan Van Daulen lit it and held 
it above his head. A man stole from the shadows 
and joined him.” 

Pennington stared at the ceiling. 

“What sort of man?” 

“A Chinaman, tuan. There was no word spoken 
between them. The stranger gave the Dutchman 
a little box and went away again.” 

“One of Chai-Hung’s men?” 


360 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“Yah, tuan . He did not go far, because I bad 
two of ours close at band. They will keep bim for 
you to-morrow.” 

“Excellent. Wbat happened to tbe tuan Van 
Daulen?” 

“He took tbe box to a but by tbe railway-line. 
It was dark when be entered; after that there was 
a light.” 

“You looked in?” 

Tbe man nodded. 

“He came out of tbe hut several times, glancing 
round everywhere. Tbe door was bolted presently 
from tbe inside, and I looked through a place where 
tbe boards bad worked apart. There was a tube in 
the packet, a tube with some dark liquid inside.” 

Footsteps were audible on the path outside. 

“That you, Van Daulen? I was just saying to 
Kabat-Pilai I could manage a cup of tea at five in 
the morning. I suppose you ’ll join me? If I 
remember rightly, you call the roll at five-thirty.” 

The Dutchman came into the radius of the lamp¬ 
light. 

“Not very often,” he laughed easily. “Whit¬ 
taker is our orderly officer this week. He rides 
round first thing to see everything’s up to the 
mark. Still, tea at five, by all means.” 

“Breakfast about eight?” 

“That’s my usual arrangement.” 


THE WISDOM OF RABAT-PILAI 361 


“All right, Rabat, you can get to bed, unless Mr. 
Van Daulen wants you.” 

A chair creaked as the other dropped into it. 

“No, thanks. You know where to put my 
clothes in the morning. I like my boots here, by 
this chair.” He turned to Pennington. “I roam 
about in slippers until my pony comes round, 
you know. I find it more comfortable.” 

Pennington waved his hand in the air, implying 
dismissal. 

“Our boots on the veranda, then. Tali } Rabat- 
Pilai!” 

“~Tabi, tuan” 

The customary salutation carried the servant to 
the passage. He glanced back once, then vanished 
altogether. 

“Queer chap, your man!” 

“Rather weird, isn’t he? He cut off Chai- 
Hung’s left hand when last they met and walks the 
world with the step of a feller who’s managed to 
pay off a fair proportion of a heavy debt. He 
smoked the thing over the fire, and I fancy he car¬ 
ries it about with him under his blouse.” 

Van Daulen shuddered. 

“What a horrible idea!” 

Pennington came languidly to his feet. 

“Good night, Van Daulen. Hope we ’re both 
well enough to sit up and enjoy that cup of tea.” 


362 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“Why not?” 

“Oh, I don't know. We live in troubled times. 
Anything might happen between now and five 
A. M.” 

“Feeling a bit shaky?” suggested Van Daulen. 

“Not in the least; are you?” 

The Dutchman’s parting shot was tinged with 
that patronizing air a hero adopts toward a man 
of lesser courage. 

“I ’ll bet you ’ye a revolver under your pillow!” 

“And I ’ll wager you have n’t! The situation 
could n’t have been summed up more beautifully. 
Good night!” 

Kabat-Pilai was dusting laboriously when Pen¬ 
nington, in riding-breeches and slippers, arrived 
on the veranda. Van Daulen was splashing in his 
room, grunting and spluttering with the glorious 
lack of restraint of a rhinoceros. The waving 
rubber-trees, the cocoa-palms, the virgin jungle be¬ 
yond the wire still glistened wondrously in a 
heavy dew the rising sun was endeavoring to 
evaporate. Coolies in mushroom hats weeded be¬ 
tween the rows of saplings; somewhere close at 
hand a native carpenter was sawing wood. Away 
to the westward an unruffled ocean raised to the 
cloudless firmament a surface of deepest blue. 

The man with the Chinese eyes kicked off his 
slippers. 


THE WISDOM OF RABAT-PILAI 363 


His foot was on the point of entering the boot 
when Rabat dropped a pile of worn volumes. 

Pennington started and looked up. The servant 
was signaling furiously, his mutilated face queerly 
contorted. The Englishman raised his brows, took 
each heel gingerly between finger and thumb, and 
from the left boot shook what looked like a tin- 
tack with an enormous head. He was still staring 
at it when Rabat-Pilai picked it up without turn¬ 
ing a chair. He retreated with it to Van Dau- 
len’s chair, grinning over the back of it at his 
master. 

“Good Lord! It w r as touch and go that time, 
with a vengeance.. The inhuman swine! Rabat, 
if I’d trodden on that how long would I have been 
in agony?” 

“Ten minutes, tuan ” 

“How did you know?” 

“I am my master’s servant and I see everything.” 

All that was possible of the grin vanished as 
Van Daulen appeared at the head of the passage. 

“Morning, Pennington. Hope I haven’t kept 
you waiting?” 

“Not in the least, old bird. I’ve always cher¬ 
ished a sort of hazy notion that you planters were 
early folk! Those my boots, Rabat?” 

He pulled them on, one after the other, fully 
aware all the while that the Dutchman’s eyes were 
upon him. Suddenly he uttered a sharp exclama- 


364 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


tion and sat back in the chair, his lips parted, his 
breath coming and going in short gasps. 

“What ’s the matter, Pennington ?” 

“Nothing. Rabat-Pilai, you idiot, why did n’t 
you knock down this confounded nail?” He fell 
forward, burying his face in his hands, then 
lurched to the floor, where he lay, jerking spas¬ 
modically. 

The native, comprehending nothing, plucked a 
long knife from his belt. With a wild cry he 
sprang at the planter, who covered him with an 
automatic. 

“Stop where you are, Rabat-Pilai; I ’ll deal with 
you later. Pennington, can you hear me? In 
half an hour from now, it won’t matter very much 
whether your friend in Jesselton finds fifty finger¬ 
prints on those brushes. I’ve a launch in the bay 
and a tong-hong standing off ready to take me to 
the Philippines. I killed Domberg. You know 
that already, don’t you? We’d loathed one an¬ 
other pretty heartily ever since we’d met; and 
Domberg stood in Chai-Hung’s way, and mine. It 
was Chai-Hung sent me to Jessleton to get you 
here. I threw out the bait, and you swallowed 
it whole. Drop that knife, you black-skinned 
devil, and get over in the corner where I can see 
you.” He reached down for his boots. “And so 
endeth the last lesson! For some things, I’m sorry 
you ’re going out like this. You were a man after 


THE WISDOM OF RABAT-PILAI 365 


my own heart, and the only one who had brain 
enough to associate me with the job; but you 
meddled too far, Pennington. I ’d have shot you 
in cold blood, but my pistol’s an outsize, and the 
customs people know I ’ye got it.” He stamped 
his foot home, and the corners of Rabat-Pilai’s 
mouth twitched. 

A bellow like that of an angry bull shook the 
rafters, and the automatic slipped to the floor. 
Pennington’s fingers shot out and closed oyer the 
butt. 

“Does n’t it occur to you, Van Daulen, that I’m 
taking a deuce of a long time dying?” 

But the Dutchman was not listening. A sort 
of semi-paralysis seemed to haye gripped him, and 
he shrank rather than fell to the boards, moisture 
bubbling from his wide-open mouth, his nails grat¬ 
ing feebly over the woodwork. 

Pennington, springing to his feet, swung round 
on his servant. 

“Rabat-Pilai, did you do this?” he demanded 
sternly. 

The features of a grotesque, battered idol con¬ 
fronted him. 

“It was between my fingers when the Dutch tuan 
came, and I dropped it.” 

“You ’re the most infernal liar that was ever 
created, Rabat!” 

He fell to his knees by Yan Daulen’s side. 


366 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


The planter was dead. 

Assured of this fact, the man with the Chinese 
eyes strolled to the far end of the veranda. Lean¬ 
ing back against the partition, his fingers deftly 
manipulating the tobacco in his pouch, he sur¬ 
veyed his henchman. 

“Rabat?” 

“Tuan?” 

“Search the Dutchman’s pockets, and place 
everything you find there on the table.” 

Rabat-Pilai hastened to obey. Within a short 
space of time a formidable heap of miscellaneous 
articles came to light. The native rose. 

“That is all, tuan” 

“You are quite certain? Hand me that pocket- 
book.” 

He emptied the wallet clean of its contents and, 
spreading them on a chair, turned them over with 
his finger. 

The thing he sought was not among them. The 
empty case still between his fingers, he gazed 
thoughtfully toward the horizon. Suddenly he 
felt for his pocket-knife and ripped out the lining. 
A delighted exclamation escaped his lips. Be¬ 
tween the silk and the leather nestled a carefully 
folded document. He perused it, his brow con¬ 
tracting as he read, then thrust the thing out of 
sight, 

A map of the district was fixed to the wall with 


THE WISDOM OF RABAT-PILAI 367 


drawing-pins. He crossed to it, beckoning the 
other to come closer. 

“You see that hill, Rabat? A little to the right 
there is a native village. I am going there now. 
Get all your scarecrows to watch the hill, and 
send a messenger to the commissioner of police 
for reinforcements. Stop half a second. I ’ll 
give you a letter.” 

Rabat-Pilai saluted. 

“The great tuan has news of Chai-Hung?” he 
suggested. 

“Rabat,” cried Pennington with ill suppressed 
excitement, “we are nearing our journey’s end!” 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


THE NET DRAWS TIGHTER 

A LEAN face was thrust into the opening 
of the tent, and a man, who was sitting 
alone over some papers spread on a case 
around the grimy base of a hurricane- 
lamp, looked up sharply. 

“Are you Pennington?” 

The man with the Chinese eyes rose to his feet. 
“That ’s my name.” 

An expression of intense relief spread over the 
new-comer’s countenance. 

“Thank heaven for that! I’ve been searching 
for your headquarters for the last two hours. I’m 
Clay, y’ know. I arrived in this forsaken island 
a matter of five days ago, pattin’ myself on the 
back at havin’ knocked across a soft billet; and 
here I am in the wilds of Borneo, with a company 
of black devils and a fifteen-pounder gun that I 
have n’t the remotest idea what to do with! 
Cheerful, ain’t it? I’m bitten from head to foot 
and devilish thirsty. I’ve instructions from 
Captain Hewitt, commissioner of police at Jessel- 

ton, to report to you for duty.” 

368 


THE NET DRAWS TIGHTER 869 


He squirmed through the narrow aperture and, 
stooping low to avoid bumping his head, uncon¬ 
cernedly disposed six feet three inches of British 
manhood on a length of sacking that covered a 
neat pile of kerosene-tins. 

“Good man! I was beginning to wonder when 
you were going to turn up. Where are your men?” 

Clay glanced toward the patch of blackness 
through which he had just come. 

“Standin’ very much at ease outside. I split 
’em up into platoons and spread ’em out a bit. 
We’d have been here earlier if it had n’t been for 
that confounded gun. It got stuck regularly every 
half-hour. Last night we had to hack down a tree 
to get it out. Forty-seven and a half hours forced 
marchin’, my boy, and every man present! Bit 
of an achievement, what? I don’t understand 
their lingo well enough to gather their exact opin¬ 
ion of myself, but I imagine it’s pretty lurid!” 

Pennington laughed. He tacitly admired Hew¬ 
itt’s good taste in selecting Clay for the job. He 
sat for some moments, stroking an unshaven chin, 
then, removing a portion of the case, extracted a 
square bottle and a pair of tumblers built rather 
for reliable service than for the beauty of their 
appearance. 

“I’ve a sort of skeleton force of my own 
scattered round the base of the hill,” he said, 
measuring out the precious fluid with generous ex- 


370 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


actitude. “They ’re tough little chaps who can 
find their way as easily in the jungle as you could 
in Piccadilly. We’ve installed a telegraph system 
by means of Dusun gongs hung in the trees. If 
Chai-Hung should attempt to break through at any 
point, we could concentrate on that spot in a 
couple of shakes.” 

“If you ’re pouring that out for me,” broke in 
the other, “I ’ll have an inch more of soda. I’d 
like to be in a position to post my men as soon as I 
know where you want ’em. So Chai-Hung’s up 
there, is he?” 

Pennington nodded. 

“We’ve cornered him at last; and to-morrow’s 
got to see the end of the Yellow Seven.” 

Clay shifted his long legs into a more com¬ 
fortable position and tapped a pipe thoughtfully 
on the heel of his riding-boot. 

“D’ you know,” he confessed suddenly, “beyond 
the fact that Mr. Chai-Hung’s not a nice sort of 
chap to meet, I remain in sublime ignorance of 
the real reason of all this expended energy. I’m 
hopin’ this is n’t actually a sham fight, a kind of 
Oriental version of the autumn manceuvers, in 
w T hich we fire blank cartridges and recognize the 
enemy by the yellow handkerchiefs tied to their 
arms. I hope not, I say, not because I’m a fire- 
eater, but because I’ve taken this affair rather 


THE NET DRAWS TIGHTER 


371 


to heart. Ilou don’t glean much from a sudden 
’phone-call from a harassed official, y’ know. 
What I’m trying to get at by all this is: who is 
Chai-Hung, when he’s at home; and what in the 
name of all that’s holy is the Yellow Seven?” 

Chinese Pennington glanced at his wrist-watch. 

“The Yellow Seven’s a powerful secret society,” 
he said. “Chai-Hung’s its leader. At first the 
island swarmed with Chai-Hung’s spies, and the 
only possible method of achieving success was to 
separate the brigand from the bulk of his followers, 
hem him in at a spot where the chances of egress 
were remote, and converge upon him from all 
points at once. During the last two months Chai- 
Hung has been hard pressed. He’s short of sup¬ 
plies, short of cash, and men are leaving his ban¬ 
ner every day. It was from some of these deserters 
that we managed to learn his code of signals. 
Chai-Hung and his immediate body-guard have 
been driven from the forest into a small, arid 
plateau. A few of his disciples still cling to him, 
but the vast majority, obeying false signals ar¬ 
ranged by myself, are concentrating in remote por¬ 
tions of British North Borneo wdiere Hewitt is on 
the lookout for them. We have to deal with, per¬ 
haps, three hundred yellow fanatics. They’ve dug 
themselves in, and we may require your field-piece 
to induce ’em to leave cover. Whatever else hap- 


372 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


pens, we’ve got to make certain of their leader. 
He is the one force that keeps the spark of insur¬ 
rection alive.” 

The speaker paused and whistled softly. 

A few moments later a native in a greasy velvet 
jacket and a rusty sarong entered silently and 
stood at attention before his chief. Clay, observ¬ 
ing him curiously, noticed that the man was minus 
an ear and an eye, that his mouth was slit at either 
side, and that he carried an enormous parang in a 
wooden sheath bound with bamboo. 

“Rabat-Pilai, the tuan Clay has brought with 
him many soldiers. You will guide them to the 
points I indicated this afternoon. There is also 
with them a thing on wheels whose voice is very 
terrible and certain men whose sole object in life 
is to make it speak! This must go in the square 
place among the trees and be covered with bushes 
until the morning. There must be no chattering, 
you understand. Every man is to go silently to 
his position.” 

The scarecrow saluted and disappeared. 

“What a priceless individual!” 

Pennington smiled. 

“I suppose he is rather out of the ordinary. 
He’s my famous chief of staff. He’d come from 
the fartherest extremity of the earth if he thought 
I was in trouble. He ? s white all through, in spite 
of his dirty hide. And he’s to thank Chai-Hung 


THE NET DRAWS TIGHTER 


373 


for his looks. Rabat-Pilai would cheerfully sacri¬ 
fice all hopes of paradise to be able to slit the 
bandit’s throat from ear to ear.” 

“A useful sort of chap to have about one! Er— 
these yellow gents—have they rifles?” 

"Yes, a good number.” 

"Likely to put up a tough scrap?” 

"Without a doubt. Chai-Hung’s their idol, 
their religion, their everything. They ’ll fight to 
the last man, unless we can somehow pick the 
blighter off early in the day, in which case I fancy 
they’d capitulate.” 

Clay was polishing the bowl of his pipe on his 
breeches. 

"When do we start making it hot for ’em? 
Dawn?” 

"A trifle after that. There must n’t be the 
slightest opportunity for Chai-Hung to break 
through our cordon under cover of darkness. 
We ’ll stroll around presently. I should like your 
opinion on my method of posting the men. Oh, 
one other thing. If it should be your luck to 
collar the bandit alive, watch him personally until 
you’ve handed him over to an authorized official. 
If you encounter him alone, shoot. Don’t trust 
to your own line of reasoning; don’t be fooled by 
any demands for an armistice; Chai-Hung’s got 
tricks up his sleeve beyond the wildest flights of 
imagination. Know what he looks like?” 


374 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


The other felt for his pocket-book. 

“Hewitt presented me with a photograph among 
other things. I gather that he’s lost his left hand 
since that was taken. Does he speak English?” 

“Perfectly. He has the manners and polish of a 
diplomat when he chooses. He is capable of in¬ 
dulging in pleasant small talk while one of his 
underlings is engaged in tracing patterns on your 
anatomy with a Malay kris ” 

“Amazing sort of customer, altogether, what? 
Any idea what made him kick over the traces?” 

Pennington began rolling the inevitable ciga¬ 
rette. 

“There must be a kink somewhere, of course. 
WTien I met him first he posed to be a wealthy 
Singapore merchant who cultivated a patch of 
rubber in Borneo as a profitable hobby. When I 
started to connect him with the Yellow Seven, I 
was laughed at. If it had n’t been for the theft 
of Lady Stornaway’s diamonds and his utter con¬ 
tempt for the police methods out here, Chai-Hung 
would still be planting rubber, traveling by cour¬ 
tesy in European carriages, frequenting the Sports 
Club, and displaying his white tunic and black 
silk bags to all admirers. Think of it, Clay. The 
commissioner used to go to Chai-Hung for advice 
on the best way to tackle himself! Once driven 
from his plantation, the bandit assumed his true 
colors. He arranged a series of raids on white 


THE NET DRAWS TIGHTER 


375 


planters, held up trains when there w r as bullion 
aboard, kidnapped settlers for ransoms, and made 
a general nuisance of himself. Hewitt was in his 
clutches for a few hours and had the unique ex¬ 
perience of watching his captors drawing lots for 
the honor of killing him.” 

And that reminds me,” said Clay quietly. “I 
met a major feller in Singapore, a vapid idiot with 
a monocle and a deuce of a lot of side. The only 
thing I could see in his favor was that he thought 
no end of a lot of you and did n’t hesitate to 
tell people so.” 

Chinese Pennington laughed. 

“Major James Lacy Armitage! Got himself 
into a most unholy mess when he was here. 
Thought I’d bungled the Yellow Seven affair hope¬ 
lessly, and proceeded to show me how to run Chai- 
Hung to earth in a week! As you may imag¬ 
ine, the bandit had him cold! What’s he doing 
now?” 

“Snaffled on to some sinecure or other. When¬ 
ever he goes into the club, everybody else beetles 
off through another door. He collared me before 
they could put me up to it. Two hours, eight 
whiskies, and my ears buzzin’ with the sound of 
his voice for a week! I wished the feller in Hali¬ 
fax !” 

Pennington stared at the flame of the lamp, a 
smile still hovering at the corners of his mouth. 


376 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“I lured him into a game of poker once, and took 
a hundred dollars from him. He ’s never for¬ 
given me for that. The amusing part of it all 
was that we all pretended we’d never heard of 
the game, and allowed him to explain the rules 
before we took a hand!” 

Clay thrust his head outside and brought it back 
wearing an expression of disgust. 

“Rainin’ like the devil,” he announced. “Ought 
to be like old times if this continues. I don’t 
think I remember attacking anybody on a dry 
day.” He scratched his arms with a certain degree 
of fury. “There’s something about wet weather 
that has a distinctly unpleasant effect on 
mosquito-bites. Ever noticed it?” 

“I suppose I did, once. There’s one consolation, 
however: the bloodsuckers give up worrying you 
after a time. Either they get used to your blood, 
or you get accustomed to their bites.” 

“First seven years are the worst, what? Won¬ 
der if my orderly’s put my tent up yet? If it’s 
all the same to you, I ’ll hop along and see.” 

“Do, by all means. We ’ll inspect the lines 
when you come back, and possibly indulge in a 
mild reconnaissance into the enemy’s territory.” 

Clay paused at the entrance. 

“It’s a gentleman’s war, this!” he volunteered. 
“Ye gods! No night firing, no gas, no grenades; 
only one gun, and we’ve got it! Can’t count on 


THE NET DRAWS TIGHTER 377 

much artillery support, can we? There’s only 
one thing that might make it unpleasant.” 

“And that is?” 

“If, by some extraordinary chance, your ruse 
failed, and we had the remainder of the Yellow 
Seven pouring on us from behind.” 

Pennington started. 

“There is that, of course. We’d better post 
sentries well in our rear to give us timely warn¬ 
ing.” 

“Right you are. I ’ll be back in a mo’.” 

He dived into the darkness, leaving Pennington 
to his own reflections. Three minutes later Rabat- 
Pilai joined him. He thrust a crumpled paper 
into the Englishman’s hand. 

Jesselton, 16th [it read], Chinese rounded up suc¬ 
cessfully in most districts. Sending Dawson. Possibly 
join you myself. 

Hewitt. 


“Any reply, tuanV’ 

Pennington reflected, then scribbled four words 
on a half-sheet of note-paper: 

“All going well. 

Pennington. ’ ’ 

He bit the end of his pencil and added: 
“Reinforcements arrived. Love to Monica.” 


378 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“Give this to the runner, Kabat, and arrange 
for outposts to be stationed half a mile in our rear, 
prepared to warn us if there are any signs of 
a hostile force gathering behind us. TaJm?” 

“Yah, twa n.” 

The creature saluted and was gone. 

Pennington bent over a rough map. Presently 
he smiled at his own reflection in a cracked 
shaving-mirror that hung from the tent-pole. 
“Possibly join you myself!” He had never ex¬ 
pected his Excellency the Commissioner of Police 
to resist the temptation of being in at the death. 

He jerked up his head. 

Somebody had blundered into a rope, tripped 
over it, and apparently utilized it to assist him 
to his feet again, for the tent swayed as if in the 
throes of an earthquake. The shock was followed 
by a somewhat colored dissertation on tents in 
general and tent-ropes in particular. 

“Who ’s that?” demanded Pennington sharply. 

The swearing ceased, and presently a low 
chuckle broke upon his ears. 

“Pennington, or I’m a confounded liar! I ’ll 
give you three guesses.” 

“Don’t need ’em, old son. If anybody were to 
ask me w T ho was the fattest, ugliest, clumsiest dis¬ 
trict officer in the whole of Borneo, I’d promptly 
reply—” 


THE NET DRAWS TIGHTER 


379 


“Not ‘Dawson/ if you ’re really the little gentle¬ 
man I take you to be. Lord, Penn, it’s a devil 
of a night!” 

The affable Dawson squeezed his great form into 
the one place that offered cover from the deluge 
without and lowered himself upon the spot Clay 
had vacated. 

“Not bad, for you,” said the man with the Chi¬ 
nese eyes, fishing out a third glass. “Three min¬ 
utes after, the runner. I ’ve just replied to the 
message announcing your departure.” 

The red face of the new-comer became suddenly 
serious. 

“The dickens you have! Hewitt despatched 
it six hours before I left. The blighter’s been 
messing about on the way.” 

“Got a thorn in his foot or something I suppose. 
You look cold.” 

“Cold! I’m soaked to the skin! I ’ve been in 
the immediate vicinity of this camouflaged hovel 
for the best part of the night, walking in circles and 
challenged at regular intervals. I had a deuce of 
a job persuading one feller I was n’t the notorious 
Chai-Hung himself.” 

“Shows they ’re doing their work thoroughly. 
You’d better take a few grains of quinine and 
something neat to help it down. Clay’s turned 
up, by the bye.” 


880 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“That’s all right. I met him in Jesselton the 
day he landed. Pretty good man, I should think.” 

He stripped off his tunic and, coolly appropriat¬ 
ing a blanket from Pennington’s bed, wrapped it 
round him. 

“Hewitt says he may run over and see the 
fun.” 

“Does he, by Jove? I did n’t see the chit, you 
know, but I knew it was sent. The commissioner 
was like a cat on hot bricks, one moment swearing 
he was too busy to get away, and another wonder¬ 
ing what was the simplest method of getting here. 
I should imagine he made a pretty mess of the 
work he had in hand. He’s probably sentenced 
quite a lot of innocent people to death by now. 
How ’re things going?” 

Pennington pushed over a small bottle of tablets 
and a tumbler. 

“Swimmingly, up to the present. We commence 
serious operations first thing in the morning. I 
had anticipated setting fire to the scrub, but the 
rain ’ll probably render that move impossible. 
Look like stopping at all?” 

“It looks,” said Dawson gloomily, “as if it 
might continue for ever.” 

“Where do you intend sleeping?” 

“Here.” 

“Brought anything to sleep on?” 

“My boy is in sole possession of a tartan travel- 


THE NET DRAWS TIGHTER 


381 


ing-rug and a waterproof sheet. The rug is 
inside the waterproof sheet, so it’s bound to be 
dry.” 

“Well, that’s good enough, is n’t it?” 

Dawson sighed heavily. 

“It would be, if I knew where the young idiot 
was. Unfortunately, we lost one another a decent 
while back, and I’ve a notion at the back of my 
head he’s made himself a bivouac somewhere out 
of the ground-sheet and is peacefully slumbering 
with my rug on his dirty shoulders.” 

Pennington surveyed the other dubiously. 

“Suppose I ’ll have to fix you up. What part 
d’ vou want to take in the show to-morrow? How 
does the first storming-party appeal to you?” 

“It does n’t. I’ve put myself down already for 
the forlorn hope, when everything else has failed; 
and I’ve sufficient confidence in you to refuse to 
believe in failure. How many of these things am 
I supposed to take?” 

“Three’s a good number. Hello! Here’s Clay.” 

Dawson nodded toward the opening. 

“Evening, Clay!” 

“Evening, Dawson! I say, Pennington, did n’t 
you say the sign of the Yellow Seven was a warn¬ 
ing of death?” 

“That’s right. Why?” 

“Well, when I left you I walked straight to 
where I’d left my kit. The orderly had fixed up 


382 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


the tent and laid out my bed. It’s a sleepin’- 
bag, y’ know, and he’s never quite got the hang 
of it. I turned back the cover to see what he’d 
done, and there was this underneath.” 

He dropped on the deal table a yellow Chinese 
playing-card with seven black dots on the upper 
surface. 

Pennington picked it up. 

“Good Lord! Have you tackled your man?” 

Clay shook his head. 

“That’s the devil of it. I can’t find him any¬ 
where. Shouted for him until I was blue in the 
face. I must confess I’ve not had much oppor¬ 
tunity for studying his habits, but he struck me 
as being reliable.” 

Pennington strode to the opening and peered 
out. 

“It’s deuced disheartening, this sort of thing. 
Sort of brings it home to one that our defenses 
are n’t all I’d believed ’em to be.” 

“Exactly! If one member of the Yellow Seven 
crowd can push his way through, it’s quite on 
the cards others can—possibly their leader him¬ 
self.” 

“In which case,” chimed in Dawson, “all these 
elaborate preparations, discomforts, and so forth 
will be in vain.” His round face, as placid and 
childlike as a full moon, beamed from one to the 
other. 


THE NET DRAWS TIGHTER 


383 


“You’ve got a weird sense of humor,” retorted 
Clay. “You have n’t the job of gettin’ that con¬ 
founded gun back to barracks!” 

Chinese Pennington was still staring into black¬ 
ness, into a throbbing, splashing wilderness where 
gaunt tree-trunks, a shade darker only than the 
night itself, surrounded the tiny clearing like a 
regiment of ghostly sentinels. 

“Dawson had better stop here,” he jerked back 
over his shoulder. “Clay, you and I ’ll embark 
upon a tour of inspection. There’s a weak point 
somewhere, and it’s up to us to find it.” 

The district officer had drawn the blanket oyer 
his head until he resembled an Indian squaw. 

“I suppose I’m in full charge while you ’re away 
and am at liberty to help myself to the bottle? 
While fully realizing the necessity for visiting out¬ 
posts on the eve of battle, Penn will excuse me, 
I know, if I suggest you’ve both got the wind up 
for nothing!” 

The man at the opening swung round on his heel. 

“How d’you make that out?” 

Dawson met his gaze without flinching. 

“You ’re on the verge of tumbling into the neat¬ 
est little trap our worthy antagonist has ever 
planned. Because Cliai-Hung has succeeded in 
communicating with the outer world, it does n’t 
imply that he had to find a flaw in the line to do 
so. You ’re inordinately proud of your jungle 


384 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


telegraph. The Yellow Seven probably employ a 
system that is equally efficient. A friend beyond 
the charmed circle is communicated with. He 
drops a card casually in the enemy’s camp, in a 
place where it can hardly fail to be noticed. Re¬ 
sult: panic at G.H.Q., tons of mistrust every¬ 
where, and two otherwise sane British officers 
engaging in the pleasant occupation of traitor¬ 
hunting on the wettest night we’ve had for 
months!” 

“Come on, Clay!” shouted Pennington, wdiose 
irritability had taken him out of ear-shot. 

“Wait half a minute. I fancy Dawson’s on the 
right track.” 

“Oh! What is it?” 

“Just this,” murmured the D.O. “The despatch 
from Hewitt was several hours late. You remem¬ 
ber I remarked on it. The runner was one of 
Chai-Hung’s agents. He wormed his w T ay up from 
the rear, using the message as his passport, slipped 
into Clay’s tent, and came on to you afterward. 
The bandit is a pretty subtle beast, you know, and 
there’s nothing so good as getting your opponent 
rattled at the start.” 

The tall man nodded approval, and the hard lines 
vanished from Pennington’s forehead. 

“The runner from Hewitt! I never thought of 
that! We ’ll interview Rabat-Pilai on our way 
round.” 


THE NET DRAWS TIGHTER 


385 


“Don’t you think I’m right?” 

“Absolutely. Your theory fits in admirably 
with what actually transpired.” 

“You want to keep a good lookout in the rear.” 

“We’ve arranged that,” said Clay. 

Dawson reached out for the whisky. 

“The ruse has had its opposite effect. Instead 
of suspecting your own men, you ’re doubly on 
guard against a surprise attack from without.” 

“I don’t like the idea of that feller wandering 
about with all that information with regard to 
our movements,” remarked Pennington. “He’s 
in possession of a note signed by myself, into the 
bargain. Heaven only knows what use he intends 
to make of it.” 

“He ’ll have to hurry,” said Clay. “We shall 
be blazin’ away at Chai-Hung’s headquarters in 
a matter of hours.” 

The deluge had given way to a steady downpour 
as the two men passed Clay’s tent. A watery 
moon, emerging suddenly from behind a cloud¬ 
bank, threw a faint yellow illumination upon a 
sodden landscape. 

The taller man, who was following close upon 
Pennington’s heels, stepped aside to avoid a stump 
and hit his foot against something soft and bulky. 

“I say, Pennington! Just a second.” 

The other stopped and came slowly back. 

He found Clay stooping over a prostrate form. 


386 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“What’s the matter?” 

“I’m not quite sure. There ’s a feller here— 
yes, by Jove, with a knife stuck in his back. Con¬ 
found it, the moon’s gone in! Got a light?” 

An electric flash-lamp threw a narrow silver ray. 

Clay came to his feet. 

“Dawson was right,” he said quietly. “He was 
dead right.” 

“Who is it?” 

“My orderly; that’s all! Had n’t we better 
push on?” 


CHAPTER XXXV 


PENNINGTON RECEIVES BAD NEWS 

D AWSON moved restlessly in his sleep, 
dug his head deeper into the miscellane¬ 
ous collection of under and outer cloth¬ 
ing that went to form a pillow, then sat 
bolt upright. A hurricane was blowing outside, 
and a thin stream of cold water, finding its way 
through a faulty spot in the canvas, played steadily 
on his left shoulder. 

He rubbed his eyes and yawned. He was still 
in sole possession of Pennington’s tent, which 
threatened at every moment to break from its 
moorings. The lamp burned serenely, and a 
solitary moth circled round it, dashing itself at 
intervals against the chimney. He consulted his 
watch. It was close on three. He must have been 
asleep for hours. There stole over him a guilty 
feeling, a hazy sort of notion that things were 
happening in which he should be taking an active 
part. 

Suddenly, borne on the wings of the wind, there 

wafted to his ears the sound of rapid firing, a 

Babel of discordant cries, and something cut 

387 


388 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


through the material above his head with a spite¬ 
ful, significant zip. And then, from somewhere 
close at hand, came the deep droning note of a 
Dusun gong. 

“Hell!” ejaculated the district officer, and be¬ 
gan lacing up his boots with a nervous haste that 
astonished even himself. He raked out his tunic 
and mackintosh, felt to see that his automatic was 
there, and plunged for the open. 

The night was alive with shadowy, flitting forms, 
with blazing torches, the incessant rattle of 
musketry that rose and fell in waves, sometimes 
deafening in its proximity, sometimes echoing 
feebly as if from a great distance. And still the 
deep-throated gong sent its warning message into 
the darkness. 

He splashed his way through the trees, lit upon 
a bunch of barefooted native soldiers that ap¬ 
peared to be taking no useful part in the affray, 
and led them in breathless haste toward the spot 
from which the alarm seemed to originate. He 
noted with satisfaction that the Chinamen were 
firing high, for bullets whined harmlessly over 
their heads, imbedding themselves in the trees, 
snapping off twigs, screeching like a host of tor¬ 
mented souls into black infinity. 

Five minutes, and they were in the open w T here 
the moon on its downward course cast eery 


PENNINGTON RECEIVES BAD NEWS 389 


shadows, and every scattered boulder sent forth a 
tongue of fire. 

“Get down, all of you,” he shouted, and fell 
on his hands almost on top of Clay, whose long 
legs trailed from behind a rock and whose cheek 
was pressed lovingly against a rifle-stock. 

“That you, Dawson? Pennington’s round on 
the far side at the only other possible point for 
them to break through. How many men have you 
got?” 

“About twenty,” panted the stouter man. 
“What’s the stunt?” 

Clay’s rifle spoke. 

“That was a beauty, Dawson. Did you see the 
beggar? Poked up his head to find a target. Last 
bit of thinkin’ he ’ll do in this world! The stunt? 
Oh, we’ve been at it for about an hour. The 
enemy achieved a minor success at the outset. 
Caught our rear defenses nappin’, and a dozen or 
so, carryin’ something on a pole, managed to 
squirm their way through and join the main body. 
The Yellow Seven opened up to cover their ap¬ 
proach, and we decided to attack.” He fired 
again. “I sent out an S. O. S. because their 
snipers were having it too much their own way. 
Our fellers were too keen at the start and were al¬ 
ways exposin’ themselves. We ’re advancin’ grad¬ 
ually all along the line. I’ve promised to take the 


390 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


slope at the point of the bayonet before dawn.” 

He shouted to some one behind, and a rifle was 
pushed against Dawson’s elbow. The magistrate’s 
eye fell at the same moment upon a pile of clips 
at Clay’s side. He thrust one into the magazine. 

“Chai-Hung’s still up there, I suppose?” 

“As far as I’m aware, nobody’s broken out. I 
can’t for the life of me imagine what it was they 
smuggled in. It was evidently something impor¬ 
tant, because they were n’t inclined to save rounds 
to secure its safety.” 

Dawson chuckled. 

“Wonderful man, Chai-Hung! He’s kept us 
on the hop for months; and he doesn’t intend 
going under without fighting every inch. It ’ll be 
a poor sort of place when we ’ve nailed him; just 
the same old monotonous oven without the delight¬ 
ful touches of originality the yellow-skinned rep¬ 
robate managed to introduce!” He peered round 
cautiously. “We sha’ n’t take that slope any too 
cheaply.” 

Clay grunted. 

“No, it ’ll cost us a few men. There’s one con¬ 
solation, how r ever: for every Chinaman who knows 
how to shoot, there are a dozen who don’t.” He 
glanced behind him. “Your fellers should be 
pretty fresh by now. I fancy I ’ll try a sortie with 
my own chaps, and you can follow with the second 
wave, mopping up everything we’ve left behind.” 


PENNINGTON RECEIVES BAD NEWS 391 


“I ’ll toss you for it,” suggested Dawson cheer' 
fully. 

“Be hanged to you!” laughed the other. “I’m 
in command here, and I’m jolly well going to 
handle the first attack. I’ve been studyin’ this 
zone for an hour or more and mapped out every 
breathing-point.” 

He blew a shrill blast on his whistle, and, before 
Dawson could realize what was happening, Clay 
had gone, with thirty odd shadows flitting after 
him. 

The sky had clouded over again, and Dawson, 
who detested a waiting game from the bottom of 
his heart, could only judge how matters were pro¬ 
gressing by the cessation of firing from the first 
lines of boulders and by the sounds of fighting 
drawing gradually away. 

He waited fully five minutes by his wrist-watch, 
then, crawling back, mustered his men. 

“Fix bayonets. Not a sound until I tell you. 
Spread out in skirmishing order and don’t lose 
your heads!” 

Really fat people are often capable of astonishing 
feats! Dawson, for all his bulk, scaled the slope 
with the agility of an antelope. Wild-eyed, keen 
with enthusiasm to come up with Clay, he paused 
to round up those of the enemy that had escaped the 
initial onslaught. A bullet drilled a neat hole in 
his topi, and, not knowing why, Dawson laughed 


392 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


v 


aloud. A knot of fanatics, running short of am¬ 
munition, hailed their approach with a shower of 
rocks. Dawson despatched the first man with his 
pistol, and the remainder took to their heels, to 
fall upon the bayonets of the last of Clay’s party. 
There followed a period of breathless, hand-to-hand 
fighting, and presently he woke to the sudden 
realization that they were on level ground, in 
fierce pursuit of the last defenders of the gradient. 

Clay’s voice bellowed after him. 

“Dawson! Dawson, you blanked enthusiast, 
come back here! We’ve gained our objective, and 
it won’t pay us to go an inch farther.” 

The district officer retired with evident reluc¬ 
tance. 

He found Clay with his back against a rock, 
binding up his hand with strips torn from his hand¬ 
kerchief. 

“Hit?” 

“Nothing to speak of. Damn bullet went be¬ 
tween my fingers. You all right?” 

Dawson felt himself all over. 

“Not even a blighty! It’s very disappointing. 
When I get back to my jolly little log hut in the 
trees, nobody ’ll believe I took part in the scrap 
at all!” 

Clay was sucking at the stem of an empty briar. 

“I ’ll give you a certificate to that effect. I think 
we’ve every reason to pat ourselves on the back. 


PENNINGTON RECEIVES BAD NEWS 393 


We ’re in occupation of the entire ridge, plenty of 
cover, and a clear view of Chai-Hung’s head¬ 
quarters.” 

He knotted the improvised bandage and drew 
it taut with his teeth. “The Yellow Seven are 
hemmed in on the plateau. Pennington is advanc¬ 
ing on our extreme right. Rabat-Pilai is in charge 
of the left flank. Behind the earthworks they ’ve 
chucked up there ’s a sheer drop of eight hundred 
feet. We ’ve posted sentries at the foot, but a cat 
could n’t get up or down the face of the rock.” 

Dawson borrowed Clay’s binoculars, and, in the 
first gray light of approaching dawn, focused them 
on a broad squat pile of rockwork barely a quarter 
of a mile away. A pole jutted from the center of 
his mass, and from it swung a yellow flag. 

“Better get a stretcher-party to work,” he re¬ 
membered suddenly. 

“I’ve told my sergeant already.” 

He glanced back and saw Pennington coming up 
the slope. His left arm was in a sling, and there 
was a broad strip of plaster across one cheek. His 
white ducks were black in patches, but he carried, 
nevertheless, the smile of a man who was at peace 
with all the world. He waved when he saw that 
they were looking. 

“Splendid! Tough job, wasn’t it? We’ve 
collared our little bit, but the swines had laid a 
mine of some sort; and I nearly went up with it. 


394 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


One tends to forget that the Chinese experimented 
with high explosives when we were messing about 
with battering-rams.” He dropped to the earth 
and lay on his stomach, his chin pillowed in his 
hands. “Dawson, I want you to take over my 
section. We can’t afford to have two Britishers 
together. I’m fixing up grub for everybody. The 
sun ’ll be up in a few minutes; there ’ll be a quick 
breakfast, after which we embark upon the second 
part of our program. Firing the undergrowth is 
out of the question, of course, but there ’ll be a 
heavy ground-mist lasting for about half an hour 
under cover of which we ’re going to converge. 
Clay, your party, together with a further platoon 
I’m sending you, will advance a couple of hundred 
yards and take cover. Dawson, you ’ll want to go 
a bit farther; say, three hundred. Rabat-Pilai 
will do the same. At seven I’m going to open out 
with the fifteen-pounder.” 

Clay groaned. 

“For heaven’s sake cock her up, and don’t forget 
your angle of sight!” 

“Oh, we ’re not going to drop anything in your 
positions. Our first effort will probably put the 
wind up the sentries at the foot of the precipice. 
As soon as we can spot a round, we ’ll creep back 
until we establish our range. Chai-Hung’s earth¬ 
works have been somewhat hastily thrown up, and 


PENNINGTON RECEIVES BAD NEWS 395 

it should n’t take long to make ’em untenable. 
They’ll scuttle for the open. That’ll be our 
chance. A native bugler will sound the ‘Charge/ 
and we ’ll be among ’em before they can collect 
their senses. Above all things, keep your eyes 
skinned for Chai-Hung.” 

A runner trotted up the incline and halted be¬ 
fore them. 

“The tuan Pennington?” 

The man with the Chinese eyes took the message 
from his hand. Dawson, watching him curiously, 
saw the color vanish from his cheeks. He sat, 
stock-still, staring at the note as if unable to com¬ 
prehend its meaning. 

“What is it?” demanded Clay. 

Pennington started. 

“It’s from Hewitt,” he said. “He has n’t been 
able to get away but hopes to join us before it’s 
all over. Monica disappeared two days ago. She 
was going to the governor’s house at Sandakan, 
and did n’t turn up.” 

“That’s Mrs. Viney, Pennington’s fiancee,” 
explained Dawson. “This is terrible, Penn. You 
don’t think Chai-Hung has had anything to do 
with this?” 

Pennington rose to his feet. 

“I don’t know what to think. It’s knocked me 
pretty hard, I can tell you.” 


396 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


“What are you going to do?” 

“Carry on,” said Pennington with a touch of 
bitterness. He went slowly back to the trees with¬ 
out another word to either. 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


RUN TO EARTH 

D AWSON, flattened down against the rock 
barely a hundred paces from the main 
objective, saw the seventh round send 
a wall toppling drunkenly inward. 
“Good man!” he murmured exultantly, then 
groped for his rifle. A score of panic-stricken 
rebels ran for the open, amid a merciless and effec¬ 
tive hail of bullets. An eighth projectile passed 
with the sound of a bursting stem-pipe, and a vol¬ 
ume of gray-black smoke filtered slowly up from 
where the flagpole had once been. Four more 
rounds followed in quicker succession, and the dis¬ 
trict officer rubbed his fat hands together. The rot 
was beginning to set in! Chai-Hung’s lair was 
crumpling from its very foundations. One main 
wall of enormous boulders stood alone behind a 
heap of ruins, and he guessed that this remaining 
rampart sheltered all that was left of the bandit’s 
followers. He cast a glance across the field of 
battle and made a rapid calculation. At the out¬ 
side Chai-Hung could not boast a hundred men; 

assuming that the Yellow Seven had sustained 

397 


398 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


casualties Dawson could not see, his force must be 
considerably less even than that. To all intents 
and purposes the day was won. 

And then, as he brought his gaze back to the wall, 
he saw a figure standing very erect on its summit, 
a man of enormous proportions in a white drill 
tunic and baggy silk trousers. He did not need 
the binoculars to recognize Cliai-Hung. His 
European solar topi was as white as if it had 
just come out of store, and the tropic sunshine 
glinted on the gold watch-chain that spanned his 
chest. 

Dawson gasped. Could this be the final phase 
of the bandit’s career? Had he determined to 
court destruction rather than fall into the hands 
of Chinese Pennington? 

He was not left long in doubt, for within a mat¬ 
ter of seconds a second form had joined him, pushed 
from below by unseen hands. 

In a flash there dawned upon him the meaning of 
that manoeuvre of the early hours, the band that 
had broken through carrying something slung from 
a pikul. 

His senses reeled. 

“For God’s sake stop that damned gun!” He 
caught himself screaming aloud, writhing in the 
agony of his impotence. He jammed his fingers 
into his ears and tried in vain to draw his eyes from 
the girl who, bound hand and foot, just balancing 


RUN TO EARTH 399 

on the jagged surface of rock, looked death in the 
face unflinchingly. 

He had always admired Monica, had even cher¬ 
ished hopes of her himself, until Pennington had 
stepped in. The sight of her standing there by the 
side of Chai-Hung maddened him. He tried to 
collect his thoughts, and, as he did so, the real sig¬ 
nificance of that solitary rampart was borne upon 
him. Clay had told him after their first attack 
that behind the rude fortress was a sheer drop of 
eight hundred feet. Her presence there was a 
warning to Pennington to cease fire. Should that . 
warning pass unheeded—! Great beads of per¬ 
spiration oozed from every pore. He wondered if 
anybody else had seen and recognized Monica. 

He wriggled into the shelter of the next boulder 
ahead, aware only of a desire to do something. 
Twenty yards from the wall, he realized that the 
firing had stopped. As he watched his opportu¬ 
nity to scramble under the wall itself, his eye 
caught a second figure to his right, a short, swarthy 
scarecrow with a long knife between his teeth. 

“Rabat-Pilai!” The creature passed out of 
sight, and Dawson lay very still, while all around 
reigned a silence that tugged at his nerve-strings. 

The sun beat mercilessly down on him, and he 
shifted his battered topi back over the nape of his 
neck, wondering all the time what Chai-Hung’s 
next move would be. 


400 


THE YELLOW SEVEN 


Suddenly, from their own lines, a single rifle¬ 
shot rang out. The man on the wall clapped a 
hand to his side, then sw T ung his arm forward as if 
to send his victim tottering backward. 

Dawson cursed the fellow under his breath. It 
was sheer madness to pick off the bandit, for he 
stood so close to the girl that the faintest touch 
must assuredly carry her with him. 

A rock, dislodged from somewhere, slid into 

space, and two hands appeared on the wall, inches 

# 

only from where the girl stood. Impelled from 
behind, she slid forward with a little scream into 
the ruins, and Chai-Hung turned with a snarl upon 
—Chinese Pennington. He had discarded his 
sling, but Dawson could see that his wounded arm 
pained him greatly. 

He hit Chai-Hung with all the force he could 
muster, overbalanced with the sheer force of im¬ 
pact, and the two men disappeared together into 
the abyss. 

As if at a given signal, the attacking force rose 
and advanced at the double, but Dawson, anxious 
only for the safety of Monica and his best friend, 
blundered ahead of them into the shattered strong¬ 
hold. There were huddled forms still lurking 
there, and he emptied his automatic into their 
midst. He found Monica, bruised but uninjured, 
half buried in a heap of debris. She smiled re¬ 
assuringly as he came. 


RUN TO EARTH 


401 


“Dear Mr. Dawson,” she murmured incoherently. 
“I ’m so glad you ’ve turned up. I was beginning 
to think all my friends had deserted me.” He 
severed her bonds with his knife, and she caught 
his sleeve between her numbed fingers. “Tell me, 
where ’s Peter? Why isn’t he here?” 

Dawson choked. 

“It was Pennington who saved you,” he stam¬ 
mered. “He—I ’ll find out for you in a minute.” 

He pushed a fresh clip into his pistol and made 
her take it. A second later he was staring blankly 
into space. 

There was a track, a foot wide, between the base 
of the wall and the cliff-edge. A yard or two be¬ 
low the path the face of Rabat-Pilai grinned up at 
him. This amazing being was hanging on by his 
fingers and toes, with the limp form of Peter Pen¬ 
nington pressed between him and the face of the 
rock. 

Dawson dropped to the path, steadied himself, 
then, grasping a single branch that jutted from the 
edge, reached downward. Rabat, loosening his 
hold, pushed Pennington’s arm upward until Daw¬ 
son could grasp his wrist, then slid without utter¬ 
ance to join the still form of his arch-enemy, 
eight hundred feet below. 

The district officer drew Pennington to safety, 
and Clay, appearing at the farthest extremity of 
the rampart, crept round to help him. 














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